


Fathers and Other Strangers

by unilocular



Category: NCIS
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unilocular/pseuds/unilocular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tim and Tony are abducted during an investigation, the most unlikely players are needed to bring them home safe : a retired Gibbs and their fathers. Set between season 3 - 4, post-Hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, but the bad guys and the OCs. I made no money from this.

**Tuesday, August 22, 2006 - 3:58pm – Former Storage Site for Baker Chemicals - 150 O St., Southwest, Washington, DC –**

With his pulse pounding, Tim McGee presses his back deeper against the wooden crate. His Sig weighs heavy in his hands, the grip growing slippery as the sweat blossoms on his palms. He holds his breath, straining for any indication that his pursuers grow closer.

But the only thing he hears is his partner's labored panting.

Tony DiNozzo clutches his own weapon in a white knuckled grip. His eyes are dark, his expression more serious than Tim has ever seen. He inhales raggedly, making his shoulders hitch as he shifts towards the edge of the crate. Just as Tony peers from their hiding spot, a hail of gunfire sends him scrambling back.

Without bothering to look, Tim squeezes off a few shots for cover.

"Watch the ammo, Probster," Tony warns. "You're going to be out soon."

Tim reaches into his pocket for his back-up clip, but comes up empty. Somehow, he forgot that he's already half-way through it. His first clip was spent almost as soon as he and Tony arrived. An anonymous tip for their murder investigation brought them to the edge of Washington's civilization, deep into the crumbling industrial district. They had just set foot into the abandoned warehouse when a shoot-out sent them clambering for protection. Tim now realizes that what was supposed to be the straightforward arrest is turning out to be anything but.

Another barrage of bullets slams into the crate, sending splinters raining down on them.

"We can't stay here," Tim yelps, his voice strident.

"Tell me something that I don't know, McGee." Tony pulls out his cell phone, scowling at the device. "I still don't have a signal. Do you?"

When Tim checks his own, his frown deepens. "Me neither. Son of a – "

"Well, it'll be more fun with just us anyways." The cheeky grin Tony shoots Tim doesn't reassure him.

Instead, he whispers: "What do we do now?"

Tony inhales deliberately, then pushes the breath through his teeth. Shifting his weight, his eyes dart around the back of the warehouse. Tim follows his partner's gaze, trying to figure out what their plan will be. The room is dark, illuminated by a few fluorescent lights high overhead and the summer sunlight that sneaks through the filmy windows on the far wall. Huddled in the corner, a group of shipping crates partially obscures a door.

"There! Right there!" Tony gestures at it with his gun. "Once we reach the door, we get the hell out of here. How's that for a plan?"

With nearly fifty feet of unprotected ground and four armed pursuers, it sounds a lot like suicide. Despite the terror looming in his gut, Tim manages a brave smile.

"Easy enough," he lies.

Tony returns the grin. "Good, you go first. They won't be expecting us to run."

"But Tony – "

"No buts, McGee. That was an order. Run like hell and I'll cover you. When you get to those crates, you lay down cover-fire for me." His head jerks in the direction of the door. "If I don't make it, you get the hell out of here. You got that?"

Tim opens his mouth to protest, but his lips snap closed at the look in Tony's eyes. Instead, he drops his gaze to his knees and worries a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt.

Tony taps his shoulder. "McGee, was I clear?"

"Yeah, crystal."

Nodding, Tony slides back to the edge of the crate. Pulling himself into a crouch, he leans his body against it and holds his Sig to his chest. He hazards a glance out of their hiding spot and Tim is surprised when no one shoots at him. The silence is deafening.

_They must be planning something._

"I can see two of them hiding behind a crate right where we came in. That means there's two more in here somewhere. Keep your eyes peeled, McGee." He wipes the sweat from his brow. "Are you ready?"

Pushing into a runner's stance, Tim swallows hard. "As ready as I'll ever be."

"On the count of three." Tony throws him an over-the-shoulder grin for luck. "One, two…"

Right before three, Tony darts out with his gun blazing. He rushes in the opposite direction of the door, drawing their pursuers' fire. Just as a third gunman pops up from behind a different container to shoot at Tony, Tim sprints towards the exit. With his sight set on their route to safety, the crack of gunshots spur him forward, making him move faster than he ever has in his life.

He dives behind a crate, his body slamming into the filthy concrete at the same time someone opens fire on him. Curling into himself to make a smaller target, Tim waits for the gunman to lose interest before he checks on his partner.

Halfway across the warehouse, Tony is pinned down behind a metal shipping container. Whenever he peeks out from the spot, the two gunmen by the entrance fire at him while the third drifts closer.

Holding his breath, Tim takes a shot at the one in the open. The pair by the entrance responds with a hail of bullets that sends him back to the floor. But at least, it gives Tony a chance to escape. While he flies towards the exit, Tim empties his clip to lay down cover fire. He mutters a curse, tossing the now useless weapon aside. Tony lands in the same spot that Tim did, rolling onto his knees to return fire.

A stray bullet nicks the edge of the crate, sending a sliver of wood into Tony's right arm. Collapsing behind the crate, he slams his back against it as he yells in pain. His hand wraps around the projectile and he wrenches it free, allowing blood to pour from the wound.

"Tony? Are you okay?" Tim gasps.

"G-damn it!" Tony jerks his chin at the blood that flows through his fingers. "Do I look okay, McGee?"

Not bothering with a reply, Tim yanks off his jacket. While he presses it against Tony's arm, Tim works to process the situation. With his partner injured and only one weapon, an already bad situation has turned dire. He peers out, watching the gunmen sweep closer. He reaches to take the gun from the ground, but Tony's hand smacks his away. Their eyes meet, Tim's fearful and Tony's determined.

"Let me cover you so you can get out of here," Tim implores.

"That isn't part of the plan, Probie, but nice try." Tony pushes the jacket to the ground as he picks up the gun. "You head out that door and don't look back, got it?"

After sliding over to the door, Tim stops to reconsider. "If I leave without you, Gibbs'll come out of retirement to kill me..."

"And if you wait for me, I think those guys might beat him to the punch." Tony stares intently into Tim's eyes for a beat, then releases an exasperated sigh. "Don't worry, Tim, I'll be right behind you."

Tim watches his partner shift his weight. "Are you sure?"

"Just run, McGee! Now!"

Rollin to his side, Tony lets out a grunt as he fires his remaining bullets into the warehouse. With the staccato of return fire assaulting his ears, Tim fumbles with the door. He slams his entire weight against it, feeling it give way with a pop and a screech to release him into a deserted alleyway. The air, thick with humidity and the stench of trash, threatens to suffocate him as his head whips around, searching for the right direction to run. To his left, past the dumpsters and bags of garbage, there is a city street that promises civilization and safety.

He only manages a few steps before a figure holding an assault rifle leaps out from behind one of the dumpsters. The moment he finds himself staring down the barrel, Tim freezes and raises his hands. It takes him several seconds to notice the gunman's young features, blonde hair and camos.

The jerk of the gunman's head points him back towards the warehouse. As soon as he turns around, something slams full-force into him, nearly knocking him over. Only a pair of supportive hands gripping his shirt keeps him upright.

"Come on, McGee, I told you not to wait for me," Tony says, his features tight with annoyance.

Without bothering to reply, Tim points over his shoulder to the gunman. Tony's mouth gapes, his lips struggling to form a coherent thought until it snaps closed. Clenching his teeth, he glares at the gunman as they double-back into the warehouse. Just inside the doorway, Tony's gun lies useless, the clip spent.

Tim and Tony are herded back into the center of the room, smack in the middle of the boxes. When the rifle dips to the floor, Tim sinks down onto his knees as the bile rises in his throat. He inhales deeply, fighting the urge to sneeze as the dust tickles his nose. Even though the air inside feels as though it's freezing, his skin starts to boil as the other gunmen emerge from their hiding places.

When they draw closer, Tim is shocked that they're all outfitted in matching camos. They move in a tight formation, the three sweeping the room as they slide towards their comrade.

_They almost look like they're Army…_

Still standing defiantly, Tony puffs his chest out at them. A short, square-jawed man with red hair steps forward to land a right hook to Tony's face that drops him to the ground. Tim hopes that figuring out the leader was worth the punch to the face.

The leader nods at the blonde holding the gun on them. "Good idea to stake out the alleyway, Hobgoblin. I figured they would've run out of ammo before they got there, but nice work all the same."

Hobgoblin grins broadly as he cocks an eyebrow. "Never leave an opportunity for escape. That's what you always tell us, right, Dozer?"

"Dozer?" Tony interjects, grinning wickedly at Tim. "I'd love to hear the story behind that call sign. Does he fall asleep on the job?"

"Nope, actually, he's a bulldozer," Hobgoblin starts, "ready to bury whatever – "

"That's not something we're here to discuss," Dozer warns, his tone dangerous as he waves over a dark skinned gunman. "Okay, Stanford, remind me which one we're here for."

As soon as he realizes their lead (and possibly their case) was actually a planned abduction, Tim's stomach roils. He coughs, struggling to swallow the acid on his tongue. While Stanford removes a sheet of paper from his pocket, Tim hazards a glance at his partner. With his good hand clamped over his bleeding arm, Tony's easy grin has morphed into anger as he narrows his eyes at the group.

Stanford points at Tony with his paper. "Anthony DiNozzo…Junior."

Tony sets his jaw, his features screwing in disgust. "What's my father done this time?"

"One of your dad's business associates is having a hard time reaching him. So our employer thought he would be more inclined to – " Dozer searches for the right word as he holsters his weapon " - return the call with you there."

Tony lets out a strangled laugh. "It must be important if he sent a bunch of Delta Force rejects to play chauffer. How much does he owe? And who's your employer?"

Obviously ignoring the question, Dozer steps forward to zip tie Tony's hands together. One hard yank pulls the agent to his feet, but he holds his ground, keeping a watchful eye on Tim. Squaring his shoulders, Tony surveys the group's uniforms and weapons in mock admiration.

"I have to admit that I'm surprised someone would throw a party like this for me. My father must've made quite the impression." Tony eyes the assault rifle hanging from Stanford's back. "You guys look pretty expensive though. I really hope you got paid up front. Commission isn't the best way to work when you're shaking someone down…especially someone like my father."

Three pairs of anxious eyes dart to Dozer, but he simply shrugs. "Don't worry guys. Payment's already been taken care of. Half up front and half on delivery. Now, it's time to get out of here."

Hobgoblin taps Tim in the back with his weapon. "What about this one?"

"Shoot 'im." Dozer shrugs. "He isn't worth anything to us."

When the barrel of the gun presses against his neck, Tim's muscles tense. He closes his eyes and pulls in a deep breath, hoping – praying – for a miracle. Bracing himself, he waits for an impact that doesn't come. All he hears over his pounding pulse is the scuffing of shoes and a struggle. Someone grunts and the pressure lifts from Tim's neck.

He cracks his eyelids to find three new sets of weapons pointed at him. Directly in their way, Tony stands with his bound hands held out. Hobgoblin scrambles to his feet and moves to rejoin his group with his gun raised.

"Get out of the way," Dozer orders. "Or we'll shoot you both."

"Are you crazy? You're trying to make some cash, right? If you shoot me, there goes your payday and you'll have to pay back the guy that hired you. But that doesn't matter anyway because your employer will never get the other half from my father." Tony shakes his head, gesturing over his shoulder at Tim. "But McGee's dad? Well, that's a whole different story."

Waving for his men to lower their weapons, Dozer stares intently at Tony. "Alright, Agent DiNozzo, I'm listening. Tell me why it's worth my time to keep your friend alive."

"McGee's dad is an admiral. Lots of power, well-connected, high-profile, not to mention loaded. Don't you think a guy like that would pay top dollar to get his kid back alive?" Tony lets the quartet consider his suggestion for a moment, then adds: "Come on, guys, my father is nothing more than a grifter. McGee's dad is Navy royalty. Which one of us do you think is the guaranteed payday?"

The three men glance to Dozer, obviously waiting for orders, as Tony sinks to the ground. Leaning forward, Tim gets as close as he can without raising suspicion.

"Tony, what the hell are you doing?" he hisses.

"I'm buying us time."

"By revealing my confidential personnel information?" Tim blinks, shaking his head at the realization. "You just told these guys to kidnap me..."

"Yeah, Probie, I know." Tony gestures at the way Dozer whispers animatedly with his men."I think it just saved your life. But I'll get us out of this, promise. I need to figure out their play."

Right before Tim knows how to respond, Dozer nods and his men start forward. Reaching Tim first, Hobgoblin zip-ties the agent's hands behind his back, then pulls him to his feet. A quick search through his pockets relieves Tim of his cell phone, tiny knife, wallet, badge and gun holster. Everything but the wallet and badge ends up on the floor in a pile next to Tony's possessions.

A gun in his back propels Tim through the warehouse. He and Hobgoblin weave their way around the crates, leading the group back to the entrance. Dozer gives a quiet whistle that stops them so he can slip outside for a quick perimeter check. He returns seconds later with a broad grin and a thumbs up.

Hobgoblin's hand on his shoulder sends Tim through the door, out into the soupy air. Squinting against the bright sun, he takes in the deserted street and decaying sidewalk. The only signs of life on this decrepit block are a long-paneled van, the NCIS Charger and a stray cat passing by Dozer's feet.

When they reach the van, Hobgoblin yanks the back door open and pushes Tim inside. He lands on his stomach with a grunt, rolling over just in time to see Tony come out of the warehouse. Kicking and flailing, Tony fights against the two men who grip his arms. When he wrenches himself free from Stanford, Tony drops his bad shoulder into the other man's gut.

"McGee! Run!" Tony yells.

Tim doesn't even make it to the edge of the van before s|Stanford retaliates with his first in Tony's face. He instantly slumps towards the ground, but the gunmen catch him and drag him to the back of the van. They drop him next to Tim and he lets out a moan, then he stops moving.

Tim slides closer to his partner as Hobgoblin and Stanford scramble into the back. The doors slam closed, plunging the interior into near darkness. Only seconds later, the van sputters to life and bounces its way down the road, hitting every pothole on the block.

Swallowing hard, Tim struggles to keep his panic in check. His eyes dart from Stanford's nondescript face to Hobgoblin's uneasy one to Tony's unconscious form.

_If we don't figure out what the hell is going on, Tony and I are as good as dead._

__-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_ _

**7:32pm – Somewhere on a Beach – Ciudad Madero, Tamaulipas, Mexico –**

The days are longer here, always filled with the light of the sun and the crash of ocean waves. Even though the heat is oppressive, the air that rides off the water cools his sunburned skin. For all the time he has spent in retirement so far, Jethro Gibbs still doesn't bother with sunscreen.

Instead, he reaches down into the sand for the cure: a beer bottle. Throwing his head back, he downs the last drops of the warm liquid that remain inside.

_Mexican beer is nothing like bourbon, but it almost does the trick._

He tosses the empty container down the beach and it joins the others with a definitive smash. His head swims as he turns his attention back to his task, the boat that he started building when he arrived here. He turns the sandpaper over in his hands before running it with the grain of the wood.

His days here are the same: waking late, working on his boat until the last light disappears beneath the palms, and nursing his heat stroke with beer after beer. But even though he has gone through the same motions, today feels different. For the first time since he arrived, he awoke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. His stomach is tight with knots that he hasn't felt since he left Washington.

_I told Mike those fish were bad._

He pauses to blow the sawdust away, the plume billowing away like smoke. The sun sneaks deeper below the palm trees, stretching the hues of orange and pink across the pristine white sand. Even the water is painted with the brilliant colors of yet another picturesque, Mexican sunset.

But Gibbs doesn't bother to enjoy it.

He wipes his hands on his shorts, the action making his gut clench.

_Maybe I just need another beer._

Chucking the sandpaper into his toolbox, he heads across the beach to the hut that he built with his friend, Mike Franks. He ducks into the dwelling, assaulted by the stench of stale alcohol and smoked fish. As he moves towards the refrigerator, he hears a quiet tune echoing from the opposite side of the room. It takes him a full minute to realize that it's the cell phone that he keeps beside his bed for emergencies. By the time that he reaches it, the caller has disconnected.

When he checks it, the display screen flashes forty-two missed calls with accompanying voicemails. He's just about to check them when the screen lights up with an incoming call from Abby Scuito. Figuring that she's calling to pick his brain about a case _again_ , he grimaces as he flips it open.

"Hello?"

 _"Gibbs, is that you? I've been trying to reach you all afternoon,"_ Abby yells, breathless.

He laughs. "I'm retired, Abs. Not used to answering the phone anymore." The hitch in her breath twists his gut. "What's goin' on?"

_"You haven't heard yet? Well, I don't know why you would have heard since you're on a beach somewhere in the Gulf. But I would have thought someone would have called you. Other than me, of course, because I called you a lot and you never answered. I just can't believe that no one let you know about – "_

"Abs! What the hell happened?"

She inhales loudly, pausing to let the thud of her music echo over the phone. _"It's Tony and McGee. They went to run down a lead on their case and they didn't come back. So Ziva went to check it out and she wouldn't even tell me what she found, but now they're missing. What should I – "_

"Don't worry, Abs, I'm on my way," he interrupts, grabbing a dufflebag from the corner.

There's a quiet sniff, followed by a fart from her stuffed hippo. _"But Gibbs, what if they don't come home? I don't know what I'll do without them. I've already lost you and Kate."_

He pulls a bunch of clothes from his dresser, shoving them into the bag. "Just wait until I get there. Who's the investigating agent?"

_"Steve Barrows. Ziva's working with his team right now to clear the scene, but I thought I should let you know. Especially since you know how – "_

"Just breathe, Abs. I'm packing right now. I'll call you the second I land," he promises

He flips his phone closed, then does a quick search for his boots before locating them underneath his bed. After a quick dusting, he slips them into his bag and zips it shut. He grabs his wallet and passport out of the dresser on his way to the door. He's on the porch when he runs into Mike Franks. Smoke curls out of the cigarette that rests on his lips.

"Whoa-ho, Probie, where's the fire?" Mike asks, flicking an ash away.

"Washington," Gibbs replies, stalking past him.

Mike snorts. "Already heading back? I told you that you wouldn't last in retirement."

"Half of my team is missing."

His mouth gapes, sending the cigarette to the ground. "And you think you'll get a flight outta here right now?"

"I don't trust anybody else to run the investigation." He sighs quietly. "Plus I promised Abby that I'd bring those boys home."

Reaching into his pocket, Mike lifts another cigarette to his lips. The lighter blazes in the waning sunlight, then he takes a deep drag. Just as Gibbs turns to head up the beach, Mike gestures for the cell phone.

"Let me call in a few favors, Probie. I bet I can get you out of here within the hour. ** _"_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I still own nothing.

**Unknown Time, Unknown Place –**

The air underneath the hood is hot and oppressive, almost strangling. Tim lifts his chin again, trying to encourage some fresh air through the space he creates…but nothing comes. With an exasperate sigh, he slumps against the wall. He thinks it might be covered with wood paneling, but he isn't sure what he feels anymore. His hands went numb hours ago. He strains against the zip-tie, flinching at the pain that shoots through his fingers like electricity.

He doesn't know how long he's been here. Or even where here is, for that matter.

He closes his eyes, desperate to remember anything that could help.

After they left the warehouse, the van took a circuitous route through the city. He tried to count the time between turns like Tony taught him, but he probably missed a few. Panic and adrenaline tend to destroy his concentration. The best he can figure is that they're somewhere near the city, just off 295.

_For all I know we could be in Baltimore…_

Tim grimaces at himself in the dark. There isn't time for a pity party. He needs to learn something tangible, something that will be able to help him and Tony.

After struggling to his feet, he takes a moment to orient himself. He stands in the center of the room that Hobgoblin locked them in earlier. Tony lies somewhere to the left, an unexpected hurdle in the darkness. Tim rolls his shoulder, feeling the bruise from when he tripped over his partner.

Based on the disconcerting silence then and now, Tony must still be unconscious.

The chill that traipses down his spine spurs Tim to take another tour of their prison.

He can't – won't - think about why Tony hasn't woken up yet.

His useless fingers run over the walls, tracing the divets in the uneven wood. Eventually, he finds the door and tests the knob again. Locked...just like last time. He didn't expect anything different. By the time he finds his way back to his original position, terror burns white-hot in his chest again.

_This isn't helping…_

To the left, he hears an low exhalation, something between a cough and a moan. Tim's heart rises in his throat, fearing what could be happening to Tony.

_Is he getting sick? Or having a seizure? Or -_

Tony coughs again, before slurring: "McGee? Is that you?"

"Tony! You're awake, thank G-d!" Tim yelps.

"Whoa, whoa, calm down, Probie. I'm fine. Just breathe," Tony replies, his voice weaker than his words.

Tim hasn't noticed that his breathing has edged onto hyperventilations. He pulls a deep inhale and holds it, searching for calm, as Tony makes a scritching noise like he's standing up. The floor creaks under his weight as he draws closer. Seconds later, the hood disappears from Tim's head and he blinks owlishly to clear the spots from his vision.

Their prison is smaller than it seemed in the dark. The walls are lined with dingy wood-paneling and the only window is boarded up, allowing the dying bits of sunlight to sneak through the cracks. A bare bulb hangs overhead, casting the room with a constraining, sulfuric glow. But by far the worst part is the air, heavy with the reek of mold and stale cigarettes.

Tim's eyes finally focus on Tony's face. He looks worse than he did at the warehouse. His left cheek has taken a deep purple tinge and his eyes are glassy, almost unfocused. The right shoulder of his suit is stained dark red, but at least the bleeding has stopped. Tim is thankful for small mercies.

"Earth to Probie." Tony waves the hood to grab Tim's attention. "Do you feel better now?"

Tim nods half-heartedly. "A little…How are you?"

"I have a killer headache, but I'll be fine." Ignoring Tim's concerned gaze, Tony moves around the room. "Sit-rep, McGee."

Tim bites his lip. "We headed north on a highway. Based on the path we took, I think it was 295, but I'm not sure. We drove somewhere between forty minutes to an hour or so. But I have no idea where we are."

Closing his eyes, Tony makes a few mental calculations. "That puts us anywhere between Fort Meade and Baltimore. Did you see anything when you got here?"

"The hood didn't help, but we're about twenty steps from the van. The ground outside is concrete or maybe, asphalt. We moved through a couple rooms before we got here. I think we're in a house."

Tony stares at him for a long beat, clearly expecting more. When it doesn't come, his stance straightens and he says: "Good work, McGee."

Tim nods, but he knows that his superior doesn't mean the praise. It's one of the hallmarks of Tony's tenure as team leader. He tends to dole out compliments when they reach their darkest hours to boost morale. What works in the middle of the night during a case just doesn't feel the same here…

"Tony, what do we do?"

With a humorless chuckle, Tony tosses the hood aside. Contorting his body at an awkward angle, he uses his bound hands to probe the interior of his jacket. After a few tries, he grins wickedly at Tim.

"Aha. I found it!"

Tim cocks his head. "Found what?"

"The safety pin that my tailor always leaves behind for suit emergencies," Tony explains, holding up the tiny piece of metal.

"Of course, you have a tailor," Tim mutters, rolling his eyes.

"Did you really think I look this good by accident?" Tony displays his wrecked suit and matted hair.

Tim bites back a laugh. "It looks like you had an accident."

"Maybe I'm not at my best right now, but Juan Pablo will get me fixed up later." Tony slides behind Tim to work on the zip-tie. "Where do you shop, McGee? Are you still picking through the clearance rack at Walmart?"

"It was one time, Tony, one time - " Tim makes a face "- and I really liked that tie!"

"Yeah, I bet you would. The fact that it only cost you $3.98 makes Gibbs look like a big spender on his wardrobe. Hopefully, you'll follow his lead someday and graduate to the sales aisle at Sears."

"For your information, Tony, clothing is the one of the worst things you could buy. The return on your investment is absolutely nil. Speaking of investments – "

"Hold that thought, Probster."

Another jiggle and the zip-tie loosens enough for Tim to free his hands. He sighs with relief, taking a moment to rub his aching wrists. The pins and needles work their way into his fingers, the sensation stinging as it returns. Tony passes him the safety pin and he returns the favor, wiggling the point into the fastener until it gives way.

"I don't need your financial advice, Probie. I already own stock in Zegna."

Tim's eyebrow rises. "What's that? A biotech firm?"

Tony chuckles, then points to his suit. "My stock just took a hit, but I'll buy more shares soon."

After rolling his eyes, Tim takes a sobering survey of the room. "Tony, how do we get out of here?"

Pressing his lips together, Tony moves his way through the room. He checks the door, muttering a curse at the lock, before he heads to the window. He peers through the boards, frowning at the sight outside.

"It looks like we might be in a neighborhood, but the nearest house is dark."

When he raises his arms to test the boards, Tony lets out a quiet moan and clutches his right shoulder. Tim rushes over, easing to his side to complete the task for him. The wood doesn't have any give when he leans against it. He goes to pound on it, but Tony stops him.

"Don't make too much noise or they'll know something's up.

Tim nods. "The boards are probably screwed in anyway. We'll never get them loose from in here."

"So we can't get out that way and they're on the other side of that door." The gravity of the situation takes a moment to set in for Tony. "Son of a – "

"Please tell me you have a plan…"

"Yea, we do the only thing we can, fight." Tony fiddles with his belt, revealing the tiny knife. He tests it with his left hand, then settles for his right. "When you get an opening, you run."

Tim's eyes go wide. "But Tony, I – "

"Come on, McGee, no buts. We talked about this earlier. You get out of here, that's an order." Tony turns to face him, his features hard and unrelenting. "You know that you've had some problems following them since Gibbs left."

Tim's mouth gapes. "I've always listened, Tony!"

Tony shakes his head. "Not on the Dukakis case."

"You tried to make me leave a scene where there was an active shooter."

"For good reason, there wasn't enough cover for both of us and you didn't have a clear shot. I told you to go so you didn't get yourself killed, but you stayed anyway."

Tim pushes a breath through his teeth. "You needed the back-up."

"Ziva was there, somewhere. I told you both to leave on the Hanson case and you two ignored me," Tony continues, pointing his finger at Tim for effect.

"Did you really think we'd leave you to diffuse a bomb alone? Really, Tony? If we hadn't stayed, you'd be dead. Ziva was the only one of us who knew what to do."

Tony's cheeks pale. "I just need you to listen this time, Tim."

Squaring his shoulders, Tim draws himself to his full height. "Why? Why do you want me to run? Do you think I'm a coward? We should face these guys together. "

Tony gives a long pause. "Because I have no idea what these guys will do to us," Tony admits quietly, raw fear creeping onto his face. "I swore an oath to protect my team, to protect you." When Tim studies a spot on the floor, Tony adds something he doesn't usually: "Please."

Tim lets out a defeated sigh. "I'll go when I get a chance."

"Good." Tony heads to the door and presses his ear against it. "It sounds like those guys are sleeping out there. We might as well do the same, Probie. I'll take first watch. Get some rest while you can."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Wednesday, August 23, 2006 - 5:09am – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters - Washington, DC –**

Gibbs stands at the lab bench, enthralled by the images on the computer monitor. His hand grips the mouse, clicking through the crime scene photos from Tim and Tony's abduction. Even though he has gone through them already, he hopes that one more pass might yield something new…break the case wide open and bring his agents home.

He stops at an image of a shipping crate, an impressive number of shell casings strewn around it.

_Why did they use so many bullets?_

With the shake of his head, he scrolls through a few more pictures. He pauses to study one of an empty clip from a Sig. The following photo shows the weapon, abandoned and useless. Directly next to it, there is a spatter of blood on the floor, partially obscured by a suit jacket.

Someone was injured, probably one of the agents. One of his agents.

Clenching his jaw, he ignores the guilt that burns his throat. He couldn't have known what would happen when he left. That his agents would be abducted during a routine investigation. He clicks through the rest of the photos, barely allowing enough time to take in the details until he hits the end. There was nothing new to glean. He scrubs his hand over his face and reaches for the cup of NCIS-issue coffee Abby brought him. One sip makes his gut churn worse than it already does.

_Now I remember why I haven't bothered with this shit since I left Washington._

He leans against the bench, dragging his tired eyes over Abby's toy collection. Not much has changed since his retirement party. Her plastic skulls and gothic figurines still poke out from their same locations. But her stuffed hippo is in the midst of an identity crisis with a spiked collar that's more fitting for a dog…or one of Abby's boyfriends. He picks up the plush, letting his fingers run over the gummy fur.

"What did she do to you?" he asks.

The hippo emits a fart, sending a hollow smile to his lips.

"So you finally learned to have fun? It's about darn time," a male voice says.

With two coffee cups in his hands and deep bags under his eyes, the leader of the other MCRT heads over. As Steve Barrows draws closed, the overhead light glistens off his bald head. He passes Gibbs one of the drinks. The presence of a freshly-brewed, off-site coffee is a welcome one.

Gibbs nods his greeting. "Barrows."

He shoots Gibbs a tight grin. "Great to see you too, Gibbs. Nice tan, by the way. Looks like retirement has been treating you well." He stops dead, his brown eyes widening. "What's on your face?"

"Got tired of shaving," he explains, smoothing his mustache.

"I bet you're using it to dust sand off your beer bottle." The simple shrug of Gibbs' shoulders makes Barrows laugh. "How are the shores of Mexico? All palm trees and cervezas?"

"Fine." An awkward silence stretches until Gibbs adds: "How's your daughter?"

Barrows flinches. "You know how much of a handful Izzy's been since Cindy passed away. I do my best, but it never seems like enough. I miss out on a lot. It comes with the job."

Gibbs nods slowly, tilting his head at the screen. "Speaking of…"

"Your old team? Until today, everything was going great. DiNozzo's come close to hitting your closure numbers with his own way. You know how he tends to be a bit more – " he searches for the right word " – dramatic. McGee grew into his own in his new position. And Ziva? Well, she's pretty difficult to figure out. But DiNozzo never speaks ill of her. You'd be proud of what they've accomplished, Gibbs."

"I always was," he replies, pulling a sip of coffee.

"I'm sure they knew," Barrows says, his eyebrows rising. "Have you seen Abby?"

"She's sleeping while – " Gibbs gestures to a computer that runs a scan " – this does whatever it's doing. What about your team? Any new leads?"

"Davenport and Ziva are getting a few hours while they can. I have Suzuki running down the anonymous tip that put McGee and DiNozzo in that warehouse. I just got myself up to speed on their case."

"Mind giving me the short version?"

Leaning over, Barrows gives a few clicks to computer to bring up a different set of photos and an image of a dark-haired man in service blues. Gibbs takes a second to glance through them. The scene appears to be gruesome with the man lying on the floor, the white carpet dyed red from a head wound. His right hand's wrapped around the hilt of a small gun.

"Meet Chief Special Warfare Operator, Zachery Mitchell, 36. Pay-rank, E-7. Former member of SEAL Team One," Barrows explains, flicking through a file on the lab bench. "Born and raised in Bethesda. He spent most of his naval career floating between various bases in California. He was stationed in Coronado until he was honorably discharged two months ago. He moved home to take care of his aging father, who died last week."

"It looks like he didn't take it well." Gibbs sighs as he surveys the images.

Barrows' lips pull into a sad smile. "DiNozzo's team didn't think so either. Their preliminary reports show they suspected suicide. But based on the deceased's combat history, DiNozzo decided to treat it as suspicious until Dr. Mallard finished his autopsy."

"What's in the history?"

"I have no idea. All I know is that his missions were based out of Afghanistan, but everything is classified. I'm still waiting for Shepard to work her magic so she can read me in on those missions."

"Don't hold your breath."

"I've learned not to, but I think it's safe to assume he was involved with something big. So until we know otherwise, we should consider his death related to DiNozzo and McGee's abduction." Barrows switches the photos back to the ones from the warehouse. "The switchboard received a call this afternoon at 2:07 from an unidentified male. The caller stated that the truth to Mitchell's death could be found in a warehouse in Southwest. DiNozzo never spoke to the caller, but he still decided to run down the lead."

Gibbs gestures to the screen. "And then..."

When Barrows brings up a photo of the shell casings, Gibbs flinches at the sight. "This is exactly what Ziva found when she got there. We put out a BOLO for them, but nothing's come back yet. Casings are from six distinct weapons. Abby's preliminary findings indicate there were three separate M4's, one M9, and two Sig Sauer P228's."

They stare at the image for several long moments until Barrows comments: "With that kind of firefight, I'm surprised that McGee and DiNozzo aren't dead."

Pulling a sip of his coffee, Gibbs studies the picture. With the number of bullets used, Tim and Tony should be dead. But something doesn't feel right. He pushes Barrows' hand out of the way so he can scroll through the images again. It's the first time he notices the location of the casings in relation to the bullet holes. The Sig Sauer bullets are buried in shipping crates, directly in front of the M4 and M9 casings…directly in front of the assailants' hiding spots.

His agents shot to kill, but the gunmen –

"Where are the M4 and M9 bullets?" Gibbs asks suddenly.

Barrows purses his lips. "They were all over the place. It's kind of funny with how those weapons are amazingly accurate, but the shots were wild. We assumed the assailants were untrained."

"Or they were trying to avoid DiNozzo and McGee."

There's a long pause as Barrows considers the suggestion. "So you think the abduction was planned and not a crime of opportunity?"

"It seems that way."

He makes a note in his file, then glances up with grave eyes. "This is personal."

Shrugging, Gibbs backs away from the computer. He needs a few moments to think, to process the situation. What should be a random crime turned out to be a vendetta against one of his agents. He scrubs his hand over his face, debating about which one could be the target.

Just as he steps into the hallway, an air-raid siren shrieks.

He nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Gibbs! Get in here!" Barrows yells.

With his hands clamped over his ears, Gibbs ducks back into the lab. The lights flash overhead like a strobe. His path back to the bench is nothing more than snippets that turn his stomach.

A black-clad figure bursts out of the office, making a jerky approach. When it materializes by his arm, he jumps again. The familiar grip on his arm brings him a surprising comfort in his near panic. Suddenly, the noise cuts out and the lab plunges into darkness. Gibbs wonders whether he's gone deaf and blind.

But when the overhead light crackles back on, he blinks to clear the pounding that starts in his head.

Next to him, Abby Scuito clutches his arm. She glances up, a sad smile barely reaching her puffy eyes. Her pigtails are wild, the fly-aways dancing in the fluorescent light. Gibbs tries his best to smooth them, but it only makes her hair worse. He kisses her head instead.

"Did you find anything about Tony and McGee yet?" She plays with the hem of her black microdress.

Gibbs shakes his head. "Not yet, but we will. What's with the new alarm, Abs?"

"I rewired the lab," she explains, "so I wouldn't miss anything."

"The first time I heard it, I damn near had a heart attack," Barrows interjects, rubbing his likely ringing ears. "What's the search results?"

Abby lets out a broken sigh, then scans her findings. "Do you remember that partial print that I found on the M9 casing, Steve? Well, I ran it through every database that I could think of." She grows quiet, her eyes squinting at the screen. "This can't be right."

"What is it?" Gibbs asks, peering over her shoulder.

She smashes a few buttons to bring up an image of a red-haired man. Wearing a navy working uniform, the young man sat with his defiant gaze directed at the camera.

"Special Warfare Operator, Second Class Matthew Cunningham, 31," she recites, gaze still glued to the computer monitor.

Heading for the door, Barrows waves for Gibbs to follow. "I'll have my team get out a BOLO and we'll bring DiNozzo and McGee home before the sun's up."

But Gibbs doesn't move, certain that Abby has more. She types frantically, scrolling through several databases and loading search after search. His eyes don't even have an opportunity to focus on her information before she moves onto another screen. Gibbs suddenly regrets forgetting his reading glasses in Mexico.

"Steve! Wait!" Abby calls.

He stops dead. "What?"

"Something's hinky here." She waits for Barrows returns to her side. "Cunningham's combat records are listed as classified, but he's from the same platoon as Zachery Mitchell. Wait, this is hinkier than I thought. It's like straight out of a movie…"

When she lets the silence stretch, Gibbs taps her shoulder. "Fill us in, Abs."

"There's no reason for his fingerprints to be here. Cunningham was killed in 2005 during his last tour."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

**3:08am – The Crow's Nest – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

Already half-way through his second cup of coffee, Gibbs stands in front of the plasma screen. His back faces the team that works behind him, but he can hear the incessant click of their keyboards. For the past hour, he hasn't moved – scarcely breathed – as he waits for any lead on Tim and Tony's abduction.

Barrows vanished a while ago, hustling off to autopsy to pressure Donald Mallard for speedier results on Zachery Mitchell's post-mortem. Gibbs opted to hang back, lurk around the crow's nest (Barrows' version of the bullpen) in hopes the break would give him to time to think.

Exhaling raggedly, he rubs the back of his neck.

_Maybe I should've gone to visit Ducky._

Gibbs shakes his head, returning himself to the moment. If Ducky's stories could solve crimes, he would have listened to them while he still worked here…and probably managed to increase his closure rate.

Instead, he needs to focus on finding his agents.

His eyes flick back to the screen. He has stared at the images from the different investigations for so long that they're starting to blur together. With nothing else to go on, he glances through them again. The photo of the dead veteran melts into the abduction scene alongside Tim and Tony's personnel pictures. In the bottom corner, Matthew Cunningham's military ID photo glares back.

All of the seemingly unrelated cases are connected in a way that eludes Gibbs at the moment.

He takes a swig of his coffee, swishing the acidic liquid through his teeth.

The phone call is the piece that ties them all together.

_But who put DiNozzo and McGee in that warehouse?_

With a heavy sigh, Gibbs turns away from the screen. Every detail of the images is emblazoned on his brain, but he just can't figure out what the connections between Mitchell and his agents could be. It has to be more than a phone call.

_Could this be personal?_

His attention focuses on the agents working tediously around the crow's nest.

Hunched over his desk, Kenji Suzuki stares intently at his computer monitor, likely still sifting through Tim and Tony's financials. Across from him, Eloise Davenport types wildly on her keyboard. The last Gibbs checked in, she was trying to gather the classified service records for Cunningham's platoon.

Seated at Barrows' desk, Ziva David holds his phone against her ear with her shoulder as she takes notes. Based on her hushed tones in Hebrew, Gibbs figures she reached out to her covert contacts. The look on her face when their eyes meet tells him that it hasn't been fruitful…yet. She presses the receiver down, then quickly dials another number.

Gibbs' gut twists.

"Somebody tell me something," he says.

Eloise's lips pull into a tight line. "I don't have much. Mitchell's service records are classified, but most of Seal Team One's missions are. I did find something interesting about one from 2005 known as Operation Sunfire." Her voice trails off as she scans the screen.

"What happened?"

"I'm scant on details, but Cunningham and his platoon were killed during that mission."

Gibbs' eyebrows rise. "You got their names?"

"Not yet. I'm not accustomed to infiltrating this level of encryption. Steve usually prefers that we use more – ' Eloise searches for the right word ' – permissible avenues of information gathering. But I know Director Shepard is unreachable tonight so we'll have to go this route for now."

Nodding slowly, Gibbs lets her believe the lie as she turns back to her work. His sight then sets on Kenji.

"I don't have anything, sir. I went through Agent McGee and Agent DiNozzo's bank statements and credit card bills. Nothing is really out of the ordinary, except…" Kenji pauses to loosen his tie.

"Whaddya got, Suzuki?" Gibbs asks.

"Agent DiNozzo spends more on clothing every month than I make." When Gibbs just glares at him, Kenji laughs nervously. "But that's not really important, is it? I also checked into the anonymous phone call. It came from a burner phone that was activated this morning at a gas station in Silver Spring. The call came in at 2:07pm and ended at 2:12pm. The phone was switched off at 2:24pm. It hasn't been turned back on since."

Gibbs clenches his teeth. "Ziver?"

Grim-faced, Ziva places the phone on the cradle. "None of my contacts could tell me anything about who might have abducted Tony and McGee. They have never heard of Matthew Cunningham."

"You know anything about this Operation Sunfire?"

"It was a US military operation to target key players in the Taliban at the start of the war." Her gaze darkens. "Shall I reach out again?"

Gibbs glances at Eloise. "You got anything yet, Davenport?"

Her wide eyes appear over the monitor. "Agent Gibbs, I need more than five minutes."

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he nods at Ziva. "Why don't you make the calls from the car? You and Suzuki go check out the lead on the burner phone."

Without hesitation, Ziva gathers her gear from underneath the desk. But Kenji remains still, fidgeting with his mouse until Barrows appears at the edge of his cubicle.

"Get a move on, Kenj. Gibbs gave you an order."

Kenji bolts out of his chair and snatches his backpack off the floor. "I'm on it, Steve."

As Kenji and Ziva head towards the elevator, Gibbs listens to them discuss who will be driving to the Silver Spring gas station that sold the cell phone. While they wait for the elevator, Ziva snatches the car keys out of Kenji's hand. His helpless glance back towards the other agents earns a shrug from Gibbs.

Barrows slides next to Gibbs. "I just got the preliminary report from Ducky on the Mitchell death. Suicide, just like DiNozzo thought."

Gibbs makes a face. "So how is the death connected to the abduction?"

Pressing his lips together, Barrows studies the plasma screen. "The phone call, but that's all we know for now. Hopefully, Suzuki and David will turn something up at the gas station."

The silence settles over them, broken only by Eloise's sporadic typing. As he stares at the images of his missing agents, Gibbs feels his chest tighten.

_What if we don't find them?_

"I think I need some air," Gibbs says quietly.

Barrows smiles sympathetically. "We aren't going anywhere."

After a quick nod, Gibbs rushes out of the crow's nest. Instead of heading towards the elevator, he follows the well-worn carpet that leads to the bullpen. With the overhead lights on their nighttime setting, the space is uncharacteristically quiet. The desks are empty, the desk lamps dark. He closes his eyes and for a brief second he can see his team, slogging through the night as they run down leads.

When he blinks, the space is still quiet…almost tomb-like. He ignores the shiver that glides down his spine as he moves into the familiar space.

He is a stranger in his own home.

Ziva's desk is exactly as he remembers, only a tiny Israeli flag and glass vase giving any clue to the inhabitant of their spartan quarters. In Tim's cubicle, the only changes are a few photos from exotic locales tacked on the wall behind his chair. Obscure corners of the world that he'd probably never have the time nor the money to visit.

When he moves to Tony's desk, Gibbs frowns at the empty surface. It isn't until he notices his old space that realizes what happened. After he retired, Tony must have relocated to Gibbs' former desk. The surface is piled high with case files, their contents spilling onto the floor. Little wads of paper, empty straws and candy wrappers are all over the place. Nestled deep within the mess is a tiny stapler with a cartooned mouse wearing a cape. In the corner by the floor, there is a white board with a list of the team's open and closed cases. The 'win percentage' makes Gibbs' eyebrows rise.

It's one thing that he never understood about Tony. How could someone so disorganized, so chaotic, so haphazard be so damn effective? But in the end, none of his personality quirks mattered since Tony always managed to get the job done. If it hadn't been for such a capable agent, Gibbs doesn't think he'd have ever retired.

Crossing his arms, he pushes a breath through his teeth.

_If I were still here, maybe my agents would've been abducted._

None of this is helping to bring Tim and Tony home, but he can't help himself.

When he scrubs his hands over his face, someone clears their throat.

Gibbs turns to find an older man at the edge of the bullpen. With his wide set eyes and strong jaw, the man's features are remarkably familiar. As he straightens the lapel of his impeccable suit, the visitor's badge reflects the overhead light.

"Can I help you?" Gibbs asks.

"I certainly hope so. Agent Gibbs, am I correct?"

Gibbs shakes the man's proffered hand. "Yeah, and you are?"

"Anthony D. DiNozzo, - " his lips pull into a tight smile " – Senior. Have you seen my son?"

"It must be pretty important for you to stop by in the middle of the night."

Shifting his weight, Senior stares at the floor. "I've been trying to reach Junior for several weeks now, but he hasn't returned any of my calls. I just got into town a few hours ago and since he wasn't home, I figured he'd be here." Senior shoots Gibbs another grin. "My boy never learned to enjoy the finer things in life. He lives to work, not work to live. But look who I'm talking to, you're the one with the stronger work ethic than his." When Gibbs doesn't reply, Senior hastily adds: "Not that it's a bad thing. Someone has to arrest criminals. But have you seen Junior? It's really important that I speak with him. Now."

"DiNozzo and one of his co-workers were abducted this morning."

The color drains from Senior's cheeks as his knees begin to buckle. Before he goes down, Gibbs grabs his arm and leads him to Ziva's desk chair. Once he's seated, Senior buries his face in his hands.

"I knew this was going to happen."

"You knew he was going to be abducted?"

"In a way." Senior meets Gibbs' intense glare and swallows hard. "I'm in the middle of a few business deals that aren't going quite as planned. One of the men that I'm working with might have threatened my family recently. I tried to reach Junior to warn him, but you know how he is sometimes. He ignores me unless we have something to talk about."

"I think someone coming after him would be a great topic."

"Well, I told him to call me because it was important. I thought he'd give his own father the time of day but – " Senior laughs humorlessly " – I guess not."

"DiNozzo probably had a reason."

"Junior's stubborn. He gets that from his mother."

Gibbs lets out a labored sigh. "So why would someone go after DiNozzo?"

"I was brokering a building complex of luxury high-rises in New York City. My client already gave me his down payment to set him up with a seller, but I'm still searching for the ideal person. He started to get a little antsy when I didn't deliver right away and he threatened my son."

"How long have you had the money?"

"It hasn't been very long. If my client had been more patient, I could've – "

"How long?"

Senior's gaze drops to his knees. "Three years."

Gibbs remains silent for a long beat. "How much are you in for?"

"A little over a million, but my client wants it returned with interest." Senior plays with the cuff of his suit coat. "I don't have it anymore. I tried to warn Junior so he could run, but he never called me back…"

With a low exhale, Gibbs leans against the desk. "Who's your client?"

Pursing his lips, Senior yanks a thread free. "Simon Carmichael, up and coming real estate mogul in the Northeast. He's not the kind of guy you want to cross."

Gibbs narrows his eyes at Senior. "But you did."

"Look Agent Gibbs, I don't expect you to understand. I do what I need to get by. I know that doesn't make me father of the year." Senior shakes his head at a fleeting thought. "Look, Junior and I have our differences, but I still try to reach out. I send a card on his birthday and Christmas. Whenever I'm in town I call to spend time with him, but he's always working. I'm trying not to give up and move on, but – " he lets out a broken sigh " - he isn't making it easy on me. I really thought he'd answer this time."

Not bothering to reply, Gibbs starts out of the bullpen.

"Where are you going?" Senior calls.

"Now that we know who has them, we'll find them."

When he senses that Senior isn't following him, Gibbs stops suddenly. Senior is riveted at the edge of the bullpen, his gaze focused on Tony's desk. Shaking his head, Gibbs moves back to his side. A hard tap on Senior's shoulder pulls him from his thoughts.

"Are you okay?" Gibbs asks.

"My son, the federal agent. That's one that I never would've guessed." Senior smiles. "Did he become the kind of man that would make me proud, Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs nods. "I think so."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he never disappointed me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story may be slightly AU for Senior's history. We know he's a con man based off what we've seen, but we don't know exactly how much of one he is. Hopefully, my interpretation doesn't seem too far-fetched based on canon. If it is, I apologize.


	4. Chapter 4

**5:39am – Unknown Place –**

"Probie, get up! Someone's coming!'

Tim is on his feet before he's even fully awake. Blinking away the last bits of sleep, he slides into the position that Tony ordered him to earlier. His heart pounds as he leans against the wall.

The plan is supposed to be easy. Hide behind the door, let Tony engage their abductors in a fight, then launch a surprise attack until they have an opening to escape. Once he gets a chance, Tim is supposed to run like hell. Run and don't look back.

Holding his breath, he presses his ear against the thin paneling. On the other side, he hears a pair of heavy footsteps drawing closer. He meets Tony's eyes and for the first time since their ordeal began; there is a flash of fear. But it's fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, swept away by rage.

Tony sinks deeper in his stance, readjusting the knife in his good hand. His right arm hangs limply by his side, useless until the moment that it's absolutely necessary. His cheeks are ghastly white, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Sweat glides down his face, dripping onto his shirt.

He doesn't look good.

Tim starts to ask about the plan, but Tony holds a finger to his lips. He points to the door, just as the lock clicks on the other side. Raw terror rips through Tim when the doorknob turns.

_They're coming for us._

The door opens and Dozer appears first. He barely glances into the room before Tony grabs him, yanking him inside. Without considering the plan, Tim slams the door onto the other person's face. There's a grunt, followed by a curse on the other side. With his weight pressed against the door, Tim struggles to keep his abductor away from him and Tony.

"Hobgoblin! Maui! Get down here!" Stanford barks, his voice carrying through the door.

Merely feet away, Tony and Dozer are locked in a bitter fight. One for control, the other for survival.

For a moment, Dozer appears to be winning until a right hook drops him to his knees. Tim debates about joining in, but the banging on the door stops him. Someone slams their body against it, jarring it against the hinges.

Tim smashes his shoulder against it and digs his heels in, desperate to keep it closed.

All he needs to do is hold their position until Tony overpowers Dozer. A hostage will allow them to escape of this predicament unscathed. Let them walk through the front door to freedom…to safety. Tim just needs to keep the door closed until Tony can finish fight.

But based on the shouts, Tim doesn't know how long that will take. He can't even tell who is winning.

The pounding on the other side resumes with renewed vigor. "Let us in! Or else!"

The door suddenly jostles, breaking Tim's footing. He doesn't have a chance to regain it and the door crashes into his body, hurling him backwards. He slams onto the floor and stays there, momentarily stunned. It's just enough time for their remaining abductors to infiltrate the room.

Stanford rushes to break up Tony and Dozer. Scrambling to his feet, Tim launches himself at them. He only manages a few steps before an arm jerks him back.

He fights with everything he has until a knife comes to rest on his throat.

In the moment, the world seems to stop.

Tim closes his eyes, begging his heart to stop racing. Despite his best intentions, he recalls a case they had a few years ago where an ensign had this throat slit. He remembers the blood splattered all over the walls from the arterial spray. Then Ducky's calm voice recants in his mind, 'It took over ninety seconds for the poor lad to bleed out and he was awake for most of it.'

He just isn't ready to -

"Yo, Agent DiNozzo! Stop!" Hobgoblin calls.

But Tony doesn't. He keeps swinging at Dozer, even though they're both covered in blood and bruises. Even though Stanford points an assault rifle at him. Even though he's surrounded, Tony doesn't stop.

A right cross to his bad shoulder sends him stumbling. It isn't until then that he looks around, wide-eyed. When his angry gaze finds Tim and Hobgoblin, it grows darker. He glances to the ground where his blood-covered knife rests.

"Don't even think about it. That would be suicide," Dozer warns.

When Tony's weight shifts imperceptibly towards the weapon, Dozer adds: "Do you really want your man over there to die?"

The blade tightens against this neck making Tim's back straighten.

_I wonder whether Abby'll hang our crime scene photos in her lab._

With a defeated sigh, Tony raises his hands. To show that he's serious, he kicks the knife away. Tim finally notices how injured Tony is: his face blood-covered, his left eye nearly swollen shut and his lower lip split open. His eyes are even less focused than before, but they still regard Dozer with hatred.

Dozer takes a moment to study him. "Have you ever lost a man before, Agent DiNozzo?"

Tony inhales sharply, his attention suddenly focused on Hobgoblin and Tim. When their eyes meet, fear slides down Tim's spine. They're going to die…here, like this. Tim swallows hard, causing the blade to dig deeper against his skin. When Tony presses his lips together, Dozer laughs.

"I'll take that as a no then."

Somehow, Tony manages an easy smile. "So it's safe to assume that you have?"

"You should know that it comes with the territory of being a leader. Even though it's the normal in battle, the guilt tends to stay with you afterwards. You move on, but you never forget." Dozer glances poignantly at Tim. "It's much easier if you don't have to watch."

The jerk of Dozer's head sends Hobgoblin and Tim towards the door. Maui and Stanford are already ahead of them in the hallway. Panic spreads in Tim's stomach like wildfire. He bucks against the grip holding him and the blade breaks his flesh. He lets out a yelp.

"Don't kill him," Tony yells. "I'll get the money my father owes you."

"Sorry, Agent DiNozzo," Dozer shoos back, "it doesn't work that way. We're just the hired help."

Hustled forward, Tim doesn't get a chance to see Tony's face one last time. Instead, he hears the door slam behind them, followed by Tony's thrashing against it. The chorus of Tony's curses and promises to kill each of their abductors grow quieter as the group moves into what appears to be a small living room.

It turns out that Tony was right. They are being held in a modest house.

The wood paneling that lined their prison covers the walls here too. All of the windows are boarded up except for one that holds a decrepit air conditioner. Humming away to itself, it barely pumps out enough air to keep the room cool. The furniture is sparse: four cots, a folding table with a laptop and two folding chairs. Everything could be set up in a pinch and cleaned up just as fast.

Dozer grabs one of the chairs and slams it in the center of the room. After pulling the blade away, Hobgoblin shoves Tim towards it. He inhales shakily, then turns to face his captors. If they're going to shoot him, he wants to stare them in the eye. He straightens his back, raising his chin defiantly. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest, but he has to hold onto this moment just a bit longer.

_I'm not ready to die._

Dozer lets out a huff. "Just sit down already."

Even though he wants to move, Tim's feet remain riveted to the ground. He stays there until Hobgoblin forces him into the chair. He presses a newspaper into Tim's hands, jerking his wrists up so that the front page is pressed against his chest.

Seconds later, Stanford materializes over Hobgoblin's shoulder with a camera. "Smile!"

Before Tim has a chance to, the flash explodes in his eyes. There is several more, each one burning a white dot onto his retinas. Dumbfounded when they stop, he blinks to clear the spots from his vision.

Hobgoblin tosses the paper aside, then yanks Tim to his feet. After his hands are zip-tied behind his back, he is herded into a corner. A swift kick to the back of his knees drops him to the ground. The pile of dust that he lands in starts a sneezing fit. Once it passes, he shifts into a sitting position.

"You might as well get comfortable," Hobgoblin says.

Leaned against the wall, Tim watches his captors move around the room. Maui grabs a first aid kit to tend to Dozer's wounds on one of the cots. When he grabs a set of sutures for the deep gash on Dozer's forehead, Tim's stomach lurches and he looks away. His gaze lands on the card table where Hobgoblin and Stanford work at the laptop. Stanford pops a memory card out of the camera, then slides it into the computer. The pair stares at the screen for a long time.

Hobgoblin points at an image. "Send that one."

"You sure?" Stanford asks.

"That's the one." Something that resembles sadness passes over Hobgoblin's face. "Trust me, that'll get us what we want."

With a quick nod, Stanford types feverishly. When he's finished, he says: "Hey Dozer, do you want to come see this before I send it?"

"Yeah, just let Maui finish up."

It takes a long time for Maui to finish cleaning and suturing the cut on Dozer's forehead. After the tussle with Tony, the leader is definitely worse for wear. Despite the countless bruises and a lopsided jaw, the deep lacerations on his forearms are the greatest cause for concern. When Maui turns to start on them, Dozer shoos him away. He hops off the cot so he can cross the room. His eyes scan the screen over Stanford's shoulder.

Tim creeps to his knees, straining for a glimpse.

"Nice work, Stanford. Send that off."

There's a click of a mouse. "Done."

Dozer heads back towards Maui, but stops when he notices Tim. Chest tightening, the agent slumps back down to stare intently at the ground. The floorboards creak under Dozer's weight and Tim holds his breath. Just when they forgot about him, he had to remind them that he was here. It's only a matter of time before Dozer delivers on the threat that he made to Tony.

A foot taps against Tim's thigh.

"It looks like you might get to go home after all, Agent McGee." When he doesn't reply, Dozer taps Tim's leg again…harder this time. "I thought you'd be happy to hear that."

Tim glances up, wide-eyed. "I am, but what about Tony?

"That isn't up to me. You should be worrying about yourself anyway," Dozer says.

"I don't understand..."

"It turns out your partner wasn't lying about your father. Your dear old dad has no problem paying to get you back alive. Anything we ask as long as we don't kill you." A predatory smile spreads across Dozer's features as he stares at Tim. "Anything we ask…so it looks like the sky's the limit."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**8:36am – Director Jennifer Shepard's Office – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

Gibbs stands by the edge of the long table that Jenny usually reserves for schmoozing her political cronies. She offered him a seat when he and Barrows arrived earlier, but he can't bring himself to remain inert. He doesn't know whether it's the coffee or just plain nervous energy.

Taking a swig from the cup in his hand, he figures it must be the coffee. Barrows brings him refills as soon as his drinks turn up empty. Gibbs lost count after three and that came long before the sun snuck through the windows of the Crow's Nest.

At this point, he knows caffeine is the only thing keeping him coherent.

The silence in the room grates on Gibbs' already frayed nerves. While Jenny takes her time reviewing their findings, Barrows drums his fingers on the table. Watching them, Gibbs rocks on his heels. With a huff, he rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and paces the length of the table.

"I understand your frustration, Jethro," Jenny murmurs.

He stops dead in his tracks. "And?"

"Reading you two in on an active, covert operation isn't something to be taken lightly." When she meets his gaze over her reading glasses, he glares at her. "Operation Sunfire is well above my clearance level."

Just as Gibbs opens his mouth to speak, Barrows jumps in: "Madame Director, maybe you could do something given the extenuating circumstances. Two of agents are missing, a team leader and a senior field agent. They're important personnel and we should – "

Jenny holds her hand up. "Your concern is noted, Steve. To get this unsealed I'll have to go through SecNav, but I need more evidence than you've presented."

Shaking his head, Gibbs clenches his teeth. "You're kidding, right? You just don't want to interrupt the SecNav's vacation in San Diego."

"He isn't on vacation." Jenny pulls a deliberate breath. "He's on a tour of the naval base at Coronado and I've been informed to contact him only if necessary. I need to ensure that any disruption to his trip will have merit."

Barrows points to the file. "What about Cunningham's partial fingerprint?"

"It could be a bullet from a military operation that fell into the wrong hands."

Gibbs blinks. "So you're saying the Navy may have lost ammunition that was destined for SEALs?"

Pausing for a moment, Jenny opts to scan the file again. "I'm not saying anything of the sort, Jethro. All I'm saying is that this isn't enough for me to contact SecNav." Her eyes dart to Barrows. "I'm sorry Steve, but I need more."

Gibbs' features twist in anger. "Bull – "

"Agent Gibbs, that's enough! As soon as you have the evidence, I'll contact SecNav about getting us read in on the operation." She removes her reading glasses and places them on the table. "You two have one shot to convince the SecNav that you need to know what happened in Afghanistan. Unfortunately, right now you two still don't need to. Believe me, I want to make this happen just as much as you do."

The silence stretches until Gibbs asks: "And what do we tell DiNozzo and McGee in the meantime?"

Closing the file, she slides it back to Barrows. "You'll pursue other leads to bring them home. For all you know, this operation might not even be related to DiNozzo and McGee's disappearance."

Gibbs sets his jaw. "It might be the only lead we have."

Jenny presses her lips together – considering - but she shakes her head. "I still need more."

With an agitated eye roll, Gibbs storms out of the office. Behind him, he hears Barrows say, "Thanks for your help, Madame Director. We'll be back as soon as I have what you need."

As he hustles past the wide-eyed secretary, Gibbs makes a face to himself. Of all people, Barrows should know by now that politeness and civility isn't the way to deal with Jenny. All she cares about is protecting her damned reputation. If you want to get anything done, the only way to do it is to go around her back. He might as well hunt down SecNav personally.

Out of habit, he rushes into the bullpen. "Somebody tell – "

He blinks, momentarily surprised to find it empty. With a sigh, he runs his hand over his chin.

He is retired. Half of his team - DiNozzo's team - is missing. The desks are vacant, their contents untouched. Shaking his head, he plays with the visitor's badge clipped to his wrinkled sports coat.

_We aren't playing by my rules anymore. This is Steve's game now._

After finishing off the latest coffee, he hurls the empty cup into the trash. He rockets through the cubicle-liked hallways to the Crow's Nest. Barrows is already in the center of the room while his team stares at him with rapt attention.

He cocks his head at Gibbs. "Did you get lost?"

"Had to hit the head."

There's a nod as Barrows turns back to his team. "Okay, Kenji, it's your turn to start."

"Ziva and I went to the convenience store that sold the burner phone," he reports, reading from his notepad. "It was purchased by…"

When he glances to the plasma screen, Eloise transfers a suspect sketch, followed by personnel photo of an oval-face, African American man with a broad grin. The drawing is an exact rendition of the man.

"Meet Alexander Mayberry, 27, former SEAL."

"Former?" Barrows asks.

"He was a member of Cunningham's platoon," Eloise says. "Killed in action during Operation Sunfire."

Gibbs takes a step closer to study the image. "Or so we think."

Barrows nods slowly. "Did Ziva catch up with her contacts?"

Kenji and Eloise share a glance, then he shrugs. "On the way back, I dropped her off in Southwest. She told me that she had someone to speak with. She's supposed to call as soon as she has information."

When Barrows glances at him, Gibbs shakes his head. "It's best not to ask."

"Okay. Do you have anything else?"

Eloise's attractive features pull into a frown. "I still haven't been able to access the file regarding Operation Sunfire. All I've gotten are the names of a few members of Cunningham's platoon like Mayberry. I've already tried everything that I know, but this level of encryption is way out of my league. If you'd like, I could go ask Abby for some help."

Barrows seems to think it over. "Maybe later, Eloise. Did you check into Simon Cartwright yet?"

Her head bobs as she sends another image to the plasma. The smiling Navyman is quickly replaced with a surveillance image of hard-featured, grey-haired man. His face isn't centered at the camera, instead he is looking at something in the distance with a cell phone clamped to his ear.

"Simon Cartwright, 57," she recounts. "Born in London, immigrated to the States with his parents at age 4. He grew up in Los Angeles. He earned a degree in business from the University of Pennsylvania in 1971, then a master's from the same school in 1973. He moved to New York City in 1975 to found his real estate empire. His current holdings total somewhere in the hundreds of millions."

"Regular Donald Trump," Barrows comments.

"Except without the bad toupee," Kenji mutters.

Ignoring the comment, Barrows asks: "Where is he?"

"He flew out of LaGuardia last night on a red-eye. It landed in Washington about an hour ago."

"That was an hour ago," Gibbs growls. "Where is he now?"

"I'm tracing his cell phone." Kenji starts typing quickly. While Gibbs stares him down, the sweat beads to his forehead. "Uh, Agent Gibbs, that isn't helping…"

"You got it yet?"

The room is silent for several long moments. Clearing his throat, Kenji sends a map to the plasma. "It looks like Cartwright is stopped at an address in Chevy Chase."

"Grab your gear. Let's go pick him up."

He's at the edge of the Crow's Nest when he realizes that no one has followed him. Kenji and Eloise wait at their desks, clearly waiting for Barrows' orders. Gibbs turns around to face them.

Barrows swallows hard. "Gibbs, we can't go yet. All we have is the word of DiNozzo's father."

Right before Gibbs can respond, a voice behind him demands, "And that isn't good enough?"

Senior ambles into the crow's nest, clutching a small cup of coffee like a lifeline. He looks much older than the last time since Gibbs last saw him. His hair is wild and his suit is wrinkled as though he tried to catch a few hours of sleep on the floor. He absently swipes a layer of crumbs from his lapel. When he notices Cartwright's picture on the plasma, his shoulders sag.

Barrows crosses the space to help him to a chair. "We'll get him, Mister DiNozzo. But right now, we don't have a solid reason to bring him. If he knows we're onto him, he might kill your son and Agent McGee. We need to find out if he does have them and where they are."

Senior scrubs his free hand over his face. "Which means?"

"You just need to be patient and trust that we're doing the best we can." Barrows squeezes his shoulder. "Maybe you'd like Kenji to escort you to the cafeteria. Get a fresh cup of coffee?"

"You already sent me on that wild goose chase once, Agent Barrows. It's closed until ten so I got a drink from the machine. I don't know what you call that stuff, but it certainly isn't coffee." Senior makes a face as he places his cup on Barrows' desk. "I'm sorry, but I'm not leaving again."

When he realizes the source of Tony's stubbornness, Gibbs chuckles to himself.

Pressing his lips together, Barrows glances to Gibbs for direction. With a simple shrug, Gibbs tells him that they're losing precious seconds. Sending a concerned father out of the office wouldn't bring their agents home, it will only delay it. Gibbs knows they're already operating on borrowed time.

"You need to wait for Cartwright to contact you," Gibbs advises. "If he does, we'll have what we need."

With a nod, Barrows turns to address his team. "Until that happens, who's up for a stakeout?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I still don't own it.

**9:17am – Unknown Place –**

Despite the air conditioner pumping on full blast, the room grows hotter as the day drags on. The sweat snakes down Tim's back, soaking through his dress shirt onto the wall behind him. He shifts on the floor, searching for a more comfortable – and dry – position.

Craning his neck, he peers at his captors. He needs to find a break in their routine that will give him and Tony an advantage to escape.

But the problem is: they don't have a routine. They don't even move.

Ever since they took Tim's picture, they left him alone and forgotten in his corner. Stanford sits at the folding table, inert and focused on the laptop. Reclined on a cot, Dozer took the opportunity to nap. His snores echo through the hollow room, competing with the air conditioner to grate on Tim's frayed nerves. Maui and Hobgoblin stand at attention by the front door, first shift in their guard duty. With their rifles cradled in their arms, they keep their attention fixed on the world outside.

With a helpless sigh, Tim sinks back to the floor. He tests the zip tie, flinching when the plastic bites into raw skin around his wrists.

_How am I supposed to fight these guys if I can't get loose?_

He sighs again, figuring that he'll have to wait for something – anything – to happen. As soon as it does, Tim will be able to discern his captors' movements, find their weaknesses….maybe even figure out what's going on. But he doesn't hold out much hope to discern why he and Tony are in this predicament.

At this point though, he no longer cares. He just wants them to survive. He just wants a chance to go home and see his friends again, his family…his team. He just wants -

A tiny ding echoes, the sound of a cell phone receiving a text message -

"It's go time," Stanford whispers

\- and suddenly, there's no time.

As Hobgoblin and Maui hustle towards the back of the house, Dozer jumps off the cot, instantly awake. He stops by the Stanford and the two of them stare at the laptop screen. From his position, Tim thinks they might be studying a map.

His muscles tense as he watches them. He is still trying to finalize the details of his plan – 'take them out, get loose, get Tony' seems too simplistic now – when a cry from the back of the house breaks his focus.

_Something is happening to Tony._

He rolls to his knees, just in time to see Hobgoblin and Maui push a hooded and bound Tony into the living room. Without a second thought, Tim leaps to his feet and rushes the trio. He drops his shoulder and throws it into Maui's side. The hit sends the man grunting, stumbling. Tim manages a solid kick to Hobgoblin's knee, but it doesn't break the grip on Tony's arm.

"Tony, run!" he yells.

The hooded head jerks upward. "McGee! You're alive!"

"Yeah, we can talk about it later." Tim ducks a punch from Hobgoblin, nudges Tony with his shoulder. "Come on, Tony, move!"

Tony wrenches his body sideways, managing to yank himself free. Right before he bolts, Hobgoblin lands a hard punch to Tony's jaw that drops him to the ground. Tony tries to pull himself up, but Hobgoblin kicks him in the stomach. He gives a broken moan, then curls his knees to his chest.

Tim rushes to intervene, but something catches his ankle. He goes down hard, landing flat in his face. His ears ring, the spots flooding his vision as he rolls over. When he finds himself starting down the barrel of Hobgoblin's assault rifle, Tim just lies still, breathing cautiously.

No one moves until Dozer lets out a low whistle.

Like trained dogs, Stanford and Maui jump into action. They scoop Tony off the ground, steadying him as his legs seem unable to carry his weight. After a head jerk from Dozer, they hustle him towards the door. On the way, Tony's knees give way and his hooded head lolls to his chest. Stanford mutters a curse, but he and Maui manage to carry him the rest of the way out of the room.

The slam of the front door resonates through Tim like a gunshot.

_Tony is gone._

_He's gone and I couldn't save him._

__-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_ _

**10:34am – Just Off Connecticut Ave., Chevy Chase, MD –**

Leaning back in his seat, Gibbs hazards a sip of his coffee. Even though it grew cold and unappealing hours ago, he still drinks it. The simple act is the only break in the stakeout's monotony. He keeps his eyes fixated on the place they suspect Simon Cartwright has holed up on his visit to Washington. The sprawling Tudor-style house stands at the end of a short driveway. Ivy creeps up its stone-faced exterior, wrapping itself through the shudders and over a few windows. Lush, old trees crowd the front yard providing a welcome relief to the intense morning sun.

As the temperatures outside the car steadily rise, Gibbs is thankful that Barrows angled the Charger underneath some rogue branches. It proves fortuitous now since Barrows refuses to run the engine – and the air conditioner - on their stakeout. He cracked the windows just enough to keep the air flowing so they don't pass out. Gibbs can't fathom why Barrows thinks a car with a running engine is more suspicious then one with two men baking inside.

Gibbs points to the air vents, hoping it might change Barrows' mind.

He looks over, unconvinced. "Nobody ever died on a stakeout in a hot car."

Rolling his eyes, Gibbs sweeps the perspiration that pours down his face and decides he might be the first. He glances out the window to catch a young woman with a stroller eyeing them. When she notices him, she shoots a meek smile and a small wave. Before he can return it, she scurries away. This is the third time that she strolled past their car. If he and Barrows aren't careful, she may end up calling the police and, quite possibly, blowing their whole operation.

"Do you think it's time to move to another spot?" Gibbs asks.

Barrows shakes his head, his intent gaze still on the house. "We stay here until something tells us otherwise."

He's just about to say what he thinks, but stops. Clenching his jaw tightly, Gibbs reminds himself that he is merely a visitor, not an active agent. He's taking a vacation from retirement to ensure the safety of men who are - used to be - his agents. Once they're home safe, he'll be back in Mexico with Mike Franks, the quiet crash of the ocean, the white sand and of course, all of the cervezas he can stomach.

He closes his eyes for a moment, his head dipping against the headrest. The heat swells around him, threatening to suffocate him. He goes to swig his putrid coffee again when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He wrestles it out of his pocket, not surprised to see Abby's name on the caller ID.

Bracing himself, he flicks it open. "Yeah, Gibbs."

_"Gibbs, - "_ he holds it away from his ear and lets her finish " - _Gibbs, Gibbs!"_ There's a short silence, followed by a quieter, " _Gibbs, are you still there?"_

He places the phone against his ear. "Yeah, I'm here, Abs. DiNozzo's dad hear from Cartwright, yet?"

_"That's a negative, Bossman…well, former Bossman. Err, just Gibbs. The cell phone line's wide open, but we haven't heard anything. I'm calling because I got something else."_

Her dramatic pause makes him sigh and Barrows looks over, eyebrows raised.

"And what's that, Abs?" Gibbs asks.

He hears a scrabbling noise like she's moving an object on her lab bench. When she speaks again, her tone is hushed, a conspiratorial smile in her voice: _"I know all about Operation Sunfire."_

Gibbs holds Barrows' interested stare. "Fill me in."

_"Well, Eloise stopped by before everyone left and told me about the – "_

"Abs."

_"- information she was trying to – "_

"Abs."

_" – access, but she was going about it all wrong. I just had to – "_

"Abby!"

_"What?"_

Gibbs can't suppress the twitch in his eyelid. "Can you just tell me what you found?"

She lets out a quiet sigh and mutters something that sounds like, "but Tony would've listened."

He doesn't pursue it, just ignores the comment. It doesn't matter and it might've been nothing more than the thump of her music. When the silence stretches, Gibbs runs his hand over his face. Barrows tilts his head the side, growing increasingly concerned.

"Want me to talk to her?" Barrows asks.

Shaking his head, Gibbs holds up a finger. "Come on, Abs, please."

She releases her breath in a huff. _"Operation Sunfire was used to send platoon from SEAL Team One in Afghanistan. Their mission was to take out key people in the Taliban, sort of like a government sponsored hit squad. I got through most of the reports and it's mainly who was killed, where the SEALs went in the country, that kind of stuff. But – "_ she clicks her mouse and Gibbs holds his breath " – _there's one anecdote here about a platoon that had a few members go missing in the Kandahar region in 2005."_

Gibbs tastes acid on his tongue. "Where were their names?"

_"Hm, let's see. There were four of them. Elijah Karova, Daniel Turner."_ The quiet gasp confirms that Gibbs' hunch was right. _"Alexander Mayberry and Matthew Cunningham. But there's no indication that their bodies were recovered even though the Navy lists them as killed in action. Just reports of them going missing, then - bam! - they're dead."_ There's a frantic clicking of her mouse. _"If he's dead, Gibbs, how can Cunningham's fingerprints be at the scene from Tony and McGee's abduction?"_

"Because they aren't dead," he says simply.

Right before he goes to hang up, Abby blurts out: _"Are Tony and McGee going to be okay, Gibbs?"_

Gibbs meets Barrows' solemn stare, nods. "We've got everyone doing the best they can to bring them home safe."

_"Yeah, I know, but are they going to be okay?"_

Letting out a sigh, Gibbs covers his eyes with his free hand. "Yeah, Abs, they're going to be fine." Without giving her a chance to ask, he adds: "I promise. We'll bring them both home."

_"Thanks Gibbs, I just needed to hear that,"_ she says, her voice sounding tiny and child-like. _"I'm going to go. I've got some Ghostbusting to do."_

"You'll call me when Cartwright calls DiNozzo's dad?"

_"You and Steve will be the first to know."_ With that, the line goes dead and Gibbs flips his phone closed.

Barrows turns his attention back to the house where Cartwright is supposedly holed up. He wipes the sweat off his reddened scalp, then adjusts his sunglasses.

"So what'd Abby have to say?" he asks.

"She got us information about Operation Sunfire." Gibbs raises his eyebrows, studies Barrows. "She hacked into – "

"Whoa, whoa, I don't need the details." Barrows holds his hands up and shakes his head. "If they're going to do it your way, keep me out of it. Just tell me, did she get more than Ziva did from her contacts?"

Gibbs smirks. "Confirmed the story."

When Ziva finally regrouped with them in Chevy Chase, she brought back scant details from her contacts stationed in the greater Washington Metro area. All she'd been able to uncover was a tale from a 'friend' about four Americans taken prisoner by the Taliban late last year. They'd been seen once in a deep cave during a deal that took place in the Afghani Mountains. Their fate and identities were unknown...until now.

_From prisoners of war to –_ Gibbs chews his lip – _what are they now? Mercenaries?_

Shaking his head, Gibbs glances out of the car to check on the rest of the team. Half-way down the block, Kenji works at a construction site. Wearing a surveyor's outfit, he uses a scope to keep the house under surveillance. A small computer nestled in the back of a pick-up truck keeps a constant lock on the location of Cartwright's phone. Squinting against the sun, Gibbs finds Ziva and Eloise sitting on a bench under a large tree. Talking animatedly to each and sipping from coffee cups, the pair looks like old friends catching up on a summer day to an unsuspecting eye.

Gibbs' stomach churns as he turns his attention back to the house. He wonders whether it's the coffee gone rancid in the heat or something else. The burn edges its way into his throat and Gibbs tries to swallow it back down. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches movement in the side view mirror.

He swivels in his seat to watch a black Mercedes sedan glide past the Charger. Sunlight reflects off its surface with an ethereal glow, nearly blinding him. When the car seems to float into the driveway, Barrows grabs a pair of binoculars from the backseat. There's a crackle in his ear and Gibbs absently fumbles with the earwig, completely forgetting it was even there.

"Okay everyone, it looks like something might be starting," Barrows says.

_"So radio silence is officially over?"_ Kenji asks, his voice crackling through the earwig.

"For now. Can anybody see that vehicle?"

_"I don't have a visual, but there's movement in the house. Bottom left window, one room over from the front door,"_ he reports.

"Eloise? Ziva?"

Eloise's voice sing-songs back. _"Two people in the car, both in the front seat. Should David and I try to get closer, Steve?"_

"That's a negative. Hold your positions." He pauses for a moment, squints through the binoculars. "Okay, I think you two should do a walk-by though."

_"On it. We're silent until you tell us to go."_

Gibbs watches Eloise and Ziva rise from their bench, deep in conversation and fake laughter. They make their way down the street, their raucous voices heralding their presence. As they grow closer to the driveway, two men in business suits climb out of the Mercedes. They move to the backseat, waiting patiently for Eloise and Ziva to pass. Even though the women are too wrapped up in themselves to notice, the driver waves at them. When they don't notice, the driver shrugs to his friend.

He waits until they get a little further down the block, then jerks open the door. He yanks out a bound man with a hood over his head out of the backseat. Gibbs studies the man, focusing on the wrecked and wrinkled suit. His gut twists when he realizes how expensive the material is.

"That's DiNozzo," he whispers.

Pressing his lips together, Barrows rubs his free hand over his forehead. His eyes are locked in the binoculars, obviously trying to avoid the glare that Gibbs gives him. All he needs to do is give the order to pick up the men who march Tony forward, but he doesn't.

Kenji clears his throat through the earwig. _"Uh, Steve, should we move in?"_

"Not yet. Let them get into the house, then we'll be able to search the entire place and arrest everyone on the premises. If we intervene now, we'll have to get a warrant for the property."

Gibbs lets out an agitated growl, his knuckles going white against the door handle. He watches as the men drag a barely conscious Tony across the manicured lawn, up the porch steps and to the front door. As soon as the driver pushes open the door, Barrows drops the binoculars and yanks out his gun.

"Move in now!" he yells, throwing open the car door.

Kicking open his own, Gibbs tails Barrows down the street. Up ahead, the other agents descend upon the house in a flurry of activity. Eloise and Kenji dart up the porch step in intercept the men while Ziva disappears around the back. By the time Gibbs catches up, the driver and his friends are in handcuffs and sitting on a porch swing.

While Eloise and Barrows slip silently through the front door, Kenji drops to his knees to help Tony. One tug of the hood reveals Tony's pale and battered face. Kenji recoils, bouncing to his feet as he yanks out his cell phone. His quiet voice carries from the edge of the porch as he begs for an ambulance.

"We've got an agent down."

The words send a chill down Gibbs' spine. He stares at Tony's lifeless face, slick with sweat and blood. His left eye is swollen, blending into a purple mass of bruises that encompasses most of his cheek. Tony's right shoulder has a nasty hole it, the dried blood crusting the expensive fabric of his suit.

But that isn't the most unnerving thing.

It's that Tony is still, more still than Gibbs has ever seen.

He presses his fingers to the pulse point on Tony's neck, thankful to feel the reliable pump of the artery. Sitting back on his haunches, Gibbs sighs with relief and pulls out his knife. After freeing Tony's hands, Gibbs squeezes his good shoulder, barely able to believe that he managed to find him.

_Thank G-d. Now, we just need to get McGee out of there and we can all go home._

A hand taps his shoulder and Gibbs glances to up at Kenji's concerned face. "Agent Gibbs, will you be okay if I help my team clear the interior?"

When he glares down at the suspects, they find the floor suddenly interesting. With a smirk, Gibbs nods. "I think I can handle this, Suzuki. Just find McGee."

"Thanks, sir. I will."

Right after checking his clip, Kenji disappears into the house.

Gibbs shakes Tony's shoulder, trying to wake him. The only thing he gets is a low moan, followed by a hacking cough. Pressing his lips together, Gibbs watches the even rise and fall of Tony's chest, hoping that it continues until the ambulance arrives. On the porch swing, the suspects stare blankly out at the street as though they're imprinting a world without bars to their mind's eye. Somewhere nearby, a bird launches into a blissful song, its revelry wasted. The minutes stretch into what feels like an eternity.

Sirens shriek in the distance and Gibbs stops holding his breath.

While the ambulance reaches the street, Barrows appears in the doorway. His cheeks are red with effort, his eyes grim. As he steps onto the porch, he meets Gibbs' gaze and shakes his head. Gibbs' heart drops into his stomach.

One of his agents is here, so why shouldn't the other one?

Gibbs jumps to his feet, heading for the house, but Barrows grips his arm.

"I'm sorry, Jethro, but we ripped that place apart."

Barrows lets out a pained exhale, dropping his eyes to the floor when he catches Gibbs studying him intently. He doesn't speak, just lets the tension hang, but Gibbs needs to hear what he already knows.

"And?" he asks breathlessly.

"McGee isn't here."


	6. Chapter 6

**12:45pm – Unknown Place –**

The signal to move comes so quietly that Tim almost doesn't notice.

He thinks it might be the slight wave of Stanford's hand that draws Dozer to the computer. Or it might be the shared look that spurs Stanford to shut down the laptop and dismantle his set-up. Hobgoblin and Maui glance up front their card game, clearly interested in their partner's activities.

Dozer snaps his fingers. "Time to go."

Immediately, they scramble to their feet. Maui clears the table with one arm, sending cards flying, and Hobgoblin hoists their packs up. They start to make space for the weapons that Dozer adds to the pile.

Tim presses his back deeper into the wall, his heart rising to his throat. His hands struggle with renewed vigor against the zip tie. Even though the skin on his wrists burns, he keeps working. He needs to get free before his captors tie up loose ends. His numb fingers scrabble over the rough wood, searching for a jagged nail to break the restraint. They turn up nothing.

He swallows hard, adjusting his body for a better view of his captors. The packs are bursting with guns, the cases full of Stanford's equipment. When Dozer motions to the front door, Hobgoblin and Maui take the first load to the van.

_They already took Tony. What are they going to do to me?_

Overhead, the air conditioner stalls, coughs, resumes its tortured cacophony. Tim squeezes his left hand flat, attempting to use the sweat and blood from his wrist as a lubricant. It doesn't work and he groans. Resting his head back, he debates about his next course of action.

Fight? He already tried it twice.

Run? He doesn't know how far he'd get, but it might be worth a shot…or so he tells himself. Anything – maybe even a bullet - would be preferable to going like a coward.

He shifts his weight, carefully watching his captors clear the house. Hobgoblin and Maui make another trip, hoisting a second set of packs and one of Stanford's cases. When the case slips out of Maui's hands, Stanford scuttles after them to protect his equipment. Once they're gone, Dozer approaches Tim with his gun at the ready.

Tim drops his gaze, studying a knot in the floor. When he recognizes the Madonna, his heart catches in his throat.

_Abby always says that people see religious symbols right before they die._

A prayer rises to his tongue, something archaic and forgotten. He whispers the words that bring him neither hope nor comfort because he feels like he's supposed to. Hollowness worms its way through his heart as he wonders how long it'll take for NCIS to recover his body.

Dozer lets him finish, then taps Tim's leg with his boot."Are you done?"

Tim nods, not trusting himself to speak.

"Good, then let's go."

He opens his eyes to find his other captors are back, staring at him with rapt curiosity. When he doesn't move, Dozer grabs his arm and jerks him to his feet. At that moment, Tim just reacts. He drives his knee into Dozer's thigh, knocking the man off balance. He tries to bolt, but Hobgoblin catches him around the waist. Something cold and metallic presses against his neck.

But the threat of a bullet doesn't stop him. He already made his peace.

Tim throws his weight back, wrestles his body out of Hobgoblin's grasp. He takes a step away, looks his captor directly in the eye, challenging him. The man's finger twitches on the trigger.

"Wait!" Dozer yells. "Don't kill him!"

They remain stock-still until Hobgoblin lets out an exasperated growl. When he shoves his weapon into his holster, Tim's knees almost give out. He regains his balance and stands there, staring wide-eyed at the four men surrounding him. In all the excitement, he didn't realize they boxed him into a corner. A head jerk from Dozer sends them creeping towards him.

Tim darts at a break in their formation, but doesn't get far. A hand grips his shoulder and another lands on the collar of his shirt. He tries to kick, twist himself away, but a punch to his gut makes his innards scream.

There's a prick on his arm - like a needle - and it burns white-hot.

He goes to bolt again, but his muscles no longer work. When his legs buckle, Hobgoblin and Maui keep him upright. They force him forward, but this time he doesn't – can't - fight it. He just doesn't have the energy anymore. As they drag him out of the house, the darkness gives way to a beautiful day. In spite of the heat, Tim shivers violently.

His head rolls back so he can feel the sunshine on his cheeks.

Then he feels nothing at all.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**2:38pm – St. Boniface Medical Center – Chevy Chase, MD –**

"Come on, DiNozzo, wake up," Gibbs repeats, voice barely a whisper.

But Tony doesn't; he remains in the hospital bed, still and pale as death. Only the beeping of the heart rate monitor gives any indication that the man actually lives. With a hollow sigh, Gibbs releases his grip on the bed rail to pace the length of the room.

He checks his watch.

_Shouldn't Tony be awake by now?_

Of course, he doesn't know whether Tony should be awake by now. Even the doctors aren't sure when the agent will wake up. As soon as the ambulance arrived at the emergency department, the scrub-clad staff whisked Tony away to run test after test for known medications. Slowly, but surely, each one came back negative. Eventually, the doctors gave up, opting to let Tony clear the drug on his own.

Gibbs glances back to the agent's unmoving form. Sweat cascades down Tony's bruised face, his cheeks puffing as he pushes out a breath. Running his hand through his hair, Gibbs hopes it means the effects are fading…that Tony will wake up soon.

_If he doesn't, we may never find McGee._

He turns away, heads to the window to stare out at a small courtyard. Somewhere far below, three women in pink scrubs – probably nurses – share a plate of fries. Their shoulders shake in communal laughter as they enjoy their lunch, a quiet moment of happiness in this awful place.

For a fleeting moment, he has a vision of his – Tony's – team on a late night.

_Chinese takeout boxes litter their desks and the bullpen. Files and papers are scattered around like a tornado blew through, haphazard and disastrous. Tony struts through the desks, doing an impression of a Bond villain that Gibbs doesn't recognize. He leers at Ziva long enough for her to brandish a letter opener. With a shrug, he moves on to Tim's desk to narrate the younger man's actions. Tim huffs, rolls his eyes, does his best to ignore the antics. Just when Gibbs rises to intervene, Tony runs off with the last bits of Tim's dinner. Gibbs barely has enough time to stop Ziva from chasing Tony down with that letter opener. Even though he orders them back to work, this moment makes him smile._

A knock on the door drags him from his thoughts.

There's a man in navy scrubs haunting the doorway. "Mr. DiNozzo?"

He shakes his head. "Gibbs."

"Oh, sorry about the mix-up. I'm Doctor Matthew Jackson - " he extends his hand to Gibbs " - and I'm here to check on Agent DiNozzo. Have you noticed any changes?"

Gibbs shakes his head again and the doctor sets his jaw, face grim. Without saying a word, he moves to the bed to tend to the patient. While he works, Gibbs watches the man closely. He can't believe Jackson is old enough to shave, let alone graduate medical school. Jackson swivels to take Tony's temperature, then glances up, his brown eyes burning.

"Don't worry, sir," he says, "your agent is in good hands. I graduated at the top of my class and did my residency at one of the best programs. I know exactly what I'm doing."

Gibbs smiles wryly. "I didn't say a word."

"You don't have to. I know what you're thinking." He cocks his eyebrow. "That I shouldn't have a driver's license, let alone a medical one. Am I close?"

Deciding not to reply, Gibbs stares at Jackson until the doctor turns back to his task. He dons a pair of examination gloves, pulls a few blood samples from the IV, then checks on the wound on Tony's shoulder. As soon as the angry and weeping flesh is exposed, Gibbs' stomach roils and he turns away.

"It's okay, you can look now," the doctor says quietly.

Gibbs turns to face him. "So?"

Jackson draws himself to his full height, which isn't much. "Well, Agent DiNozzo's arm looks better since we started the antibiotics. It's still going to be touch and go until he metabolizes the unknown substance. I have a few more tests that I want to run, but I'm not optimistic that we'll ever know what this was. The important thing is that he's stable."

"Any idea when he'll wake up?"

Biting his lower lip, Jackson shrugs. "His blood pressure is up, so I hope that means soon. But I can't be sure. Do you have any more questions?" He pauses long enough for Gibbs to shake his head. "Then I need to get these samples to the lab ASAP." And just like that, the doctor is gone.

Running his hands over his face, Gibbs sinks into the visitor's chair. He doesn't know how long he sits there with his arms crossed, waiting for something – anything – to happen. Just when he's about to try shaking Tony awake, he hears a familiar voice carry from the hallway.

"I see his room number! It's right up here!" Abby yells, panic edging into her voice.

Gibbs' chest tightens as she bursts into the room. Her face is haggard, make-up smeared across her cheeks and one pigtail higher than the other. For some inexplicable reason, she clutches a computer monitor. As soon as her eyes land on the sleeping agent, she thrusts the hardware at Gibbs and dives to hug Tony as tightly as she can manage. She leans to his ear, whispers something unintelligible. Once she's done, she grips his hand.

"How is he?" she asks, not bothering to turn around.

"Fine, just waiting for him to wake up."

She rocks in her boots, glances back at Gibbs. "Did the doctors tell you what the drug was?"

"They don't know yet."

"Still? How can they not know? I need to know so I can track it down to the supplier. Then we can hunt these guys down and stop them, so we can...so we can..." She braces herself, then adds: "So we can find McGee."

He holds up the monitor. "Is that what this is for?"

Her eyes light up. "Steve said I couldn't bring Tony to my lab, so I brought my lab to Tony."

Chuckling, he crosses the room to wrap his free arm around her shoulders. She looks up at him, pitiful and heartbroken. "He will wake up, right?" When he nods, she sighs and continues: "And we'll find Timmy, right?"

"I already promised that I would." He kisses her head. "Have I ever broken a promise?"

"Not yet." She wraps her hand around the bed rail. "And this wouldn't be a good time to start."

When he doesn't reply, she grabs the monitor out of his hands. She moves to the corner of the room where a tray table rests, abandoned. She stares at the space, shrugs when she accepts this is best she'll do. After she arranges the monitor, she adjusts the table so she can keep an eye on Tony.

Just as he's about to ask where the rest of the computer is, Kenji and DiNozzo Senior appear in the doorway. Both of their faces are red as they stagger into the room. Kenji is saddled with a computer tower, two laptop bags and a backpack bursting with cables. Senior balances something that looks like a microscope on an evidence box. As he wheezes his way inside, the instrument slides off and Gibbs dives to save it.

Relief floods Abby's features. "Thanks, Gibbs."

He nods at her.

"So, Abby, where do you – " Kenji stops to catch his breath " – want all this stuff?"

While Abby waves them over, Gibbs grabs the box from Senior's hands. He loiters by the impromptu lab, watching Kenji rip into the equipment so Senior has some time with his son. Once Abby begins lecturing Kenji on how to set up her computer, Gibbs rolls his eyes and heads over to Tony's bedside.

Senior stands a few feet away, his arms crossed tightly. Letting out a labored sigh, he shakes his head. "I keep trying to tell myself that it isn't all my fault, but I can't keep lying. That's what got Junior into this mess in the first place."

Gibbs nods. "Did Cartwright confess?"

"As soon as Agent Barrows offered him a plea deal, he told them everything." Anger quickly replaces the guilt on Senior's face. "That bastard planned to ransom Junior back to me for double what I acquired from him. He was going to kill him too, if I couldn't pay. Thankfully, everything's going to be okay."

Gibbs sets his jaw. "For him."

Senior flinches violently. "Oh yeah, that other agent. Cartwright – "

"McGee."

Senior blinks, his brow furrowing. "Excuse me?"

"That other agent has a name, Tim McGee."

"I apologize, Agent – " Senior cringes at the slip-up " - Gibbs. I know Agent Barrows told me earlier but it must have slipped my mind. Do you want to know whether Simon Cartwright was involved with the other agent's disappearance or not?" Gibbs checks on Kenji, who's still assembling the computer so he motions for Senior to continue: "He didn't even know anyone else was there when Junior was taken."

"That true, Suzuki?" Gibbs calls.

Kenji's face pops up from behind the table, looking like a deer in headlights. "Yes, sir. Cartwright hired the men that took DiNozzo. They had very specific instructions to leave no witnesses."

The statement hits Gibbs like a punch in the gut, sucking the very life from his lungs. When Abby buries her face in her hands, Kenji leaps to feet and places his hands on her shoulders.

"No, no, that's not what I meant. They weren't supposed to leave anyone behind." He closes his eyes, grimaces. "Maybe they were supposed to take the witnesses with them. Maybe they were going to...Maybe they were going to - " his mouth founders as he glances from Gibbs to Senior and back again " – maybe they wanted to steal Cartwright's idea?"

"Kenji?" Abby peers through her fingers. "What do you mean?"

He motions for Gibbs for help, but he doesn't get any. Gibbs stands stock-still, letting the younger man flounder with his idea. If they're sharing the same thought, Kenji will deserve the accolades for bringing Tim home. For a long moment, Kenji just points at Senior as though it explains everything.

Eventually, he sighs like no one ever understands him. "What if these guys are ransoming McGee back to his father like Cartwright tried with DiNozzo?"

As soon as he says the words, he braces himself for the backlash. But no one says a word, they just let the thought permeate the room. Pulling her hands away from her face, Abby cocks her head. He takes a step back, but she tackles him in a giant bear hug anyway.

"Kenji, you're a genius!" She pecks his cheek and his face flushes. "McGee mentioned his dad was an Admiral so it makes sense. They have power, prestige and - "

"Money," Gibbs finishes, then adds: "Nice work, Suzuki."

Kenji's eyes nearly bug out of his head and his face turns a deeper shade of crimson. "Um, uh, thank you, Sir. But now that's figured out, what do we do?"

"Does Barrows have any other leads?"

"Well, he and Eloise are looking into how Cartwright found these guys online. Steve thought he might be able to establish contact and that could lead us to McGee. So Abby decided she would assist remotely and keep an eye on DiNozzo."

"And Ziva?"

He shrugs. "She had a rendez-vous with another contact and said she'd be in touch."

"Then we'll take your lead."

"Uh, sir, I – "

Abby holds up her hands. "Can I get some quiet?" When Kenji tries to speak again, Gibbs shakes his head. "And a little help, please?"

Pressing his lips together, Kenji darts over to the workstation. She gets the computer up and running as he reaches into a laptop bag to pull out a back-up machine. Within seconds, the familiar thump of her bass fills the room.

Senior leans over, whispers: "Isn't that going to disturb Junior?"

"It helps me think," Abby replies, "and believe it or not, but Tony totally loves _Plasticized Death."_

Senior's reply dies on his tongue when Abby narrows her eyes at him. With her silence restored, she turns back to her work. Her fingers slam on the keyboard as Kenji watches over her shoulder. Once he catches her vibe, he begins to type at the laptop. Gibbs waits, his heart rising in his throat.

After what feels like forever, she shoots Kenji a sly smile. "Got something."

Instantaneously, Gibbs is by their side, staring at the monitors. The laptop displays a standard Navy photo of an older man in dress whites, but the man's resemblance to Tim is striking.

"Meet Four-Star Admiral John McGee, incumbent to – "

"Spare me the details, Abs. Just tell me where I can find him."

She flinches, surprised to be cut short. With a few clicks, she loads an image that looks like an itinerary. "Since Timmy's dad is such an important presence in Washington, his location is never really a secret. Today, he's going to be at a press conference for military spending on Capitol Hill."

Gibbs squints at the computer for the time, then glances at his watch. If he leaves right now, he might just be able to intercept the Admiral after the reporters' questions. His hand slides into his pocket, coming up empty and he suddenly remembers that he caught a ride here with the ambulance.

Abby leans her head against his shoulder. "Do you really think this is going to take you to Timmy?"

"Already told you that I'll bring him home, Abs, whatever it takes. We found Tony so McGee'll be next. You know he's always the easy one."

Her body trembles as she giggles, trying to keep herself from crying. "Call me as soon as you know. I'm not going anywhere until Tony wakes up."

From his vigil by Tony's bed, Senior agrees: "Me neither."

"Alright them, let's go, Suzuki," Gibbs says, waving his hand.

Kenji rubs the back of his neck, coughs. "Uh, sir, Steve asked me to help Abby set up, then accompany you back to NCIS." When Abby jams her elbow into his side, his face falls. "Where are we headed, sir?"

"Capitol Hill."

With a half-hearted nod, Kenji pulls a set of car keys out of his pocket. Gibbs snatches them, then rushes out of the room. He nearly makes it into the hallway before he stops dead, turns back around. He heads past Senior, ignoring the questioning glance as he pauses by Tony's bedside.

He squeezes his former agent's hand. "Be awake by the time I get back, Tony. That's an order."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I still own nothing...

**3:56pm – Capitol Hill – Washington, DC –**

"Wait up, sir! Please!" Kenji yells, the words coming between his strident breathes. "I'm coming!"

Gibbs glances back, finds the younger agent's red face halfway down the Capitol steps. He doesn't the time to wait for Kenji to catch up. They have no idea when the meeting will end, if it hasn't already. With the shake of his head, Gibbs presses onward, bounding up the last flight of steps. He whips past the white marble walls and the lobbyists plying lawmakers with lavish promises of donations and industry support.

Inside the building, it's dark and cool, a perfect hideaway to the summer heat and governmental ethics.

He pauses to catch his breath and survey the interior. In front of him, the security line snakes through three rows of velvet ropes straight to the double glass doors. Tourists stand like cattle on their way to slaughter, waiting for the hunched and wrinkled security guards to check their identification. Just off to the left, a man in a suit checks passes, letting some through without incident - and without waiting.

Gibbs reaches into his pocket, fingers the spot where his badge used to be.

_I can't get through with just an NCIS visitor's pass._

Just when he is about try, Kenji bursts through the door. Wheezing loud enough to draw the line's attention, he glances around until he finds Gibbs. Relief floods over his tight features. He quickly rushes to Gibbs' side, then doubles over, leaning on his knees.

"Thanks – for – waiting, sir. I – " he hacks, struggles for a deep breath " – appreciate it. I – "another cough makes him sound like he's dying "- left my inhaler at the office again..."

Gibbs jerks his head towards the line. "I need you to get us through security."

Kenji flinches, shooting Gibbs a sideways look. Once he realizes the reply isn't a joke, he straightens up and adjusts the lapel on his suit jacket. With a grim nod, he retrieves his badge and strides over to the young security guard. As Gibbs follows, he pulls out the visitor's pass he 'borrowed' from NCIS. It's the closest thing he has to his old credentials.

When they reach the guard, they both hand over their information.

Towering over Kenji, the guard takes in the sweat cascading down the agent's ruddy cheeks. "So how's the weather?"

Kenji sweeps the perspiration into his hair, making it stand at a weird angle. "Hot."

The guard gives a half-nod and a laugh. "Okay, well, you're good to go, Agent Suzuki. But Mr. Gibbs, I'm afraid you'll need to go through the regular line. I can't accept this – " he flicks the flimsy laminated paper with his fingers " – since it isn't officially from any agency."

Gibbs gestures to Kenji. "I'm with him."

"Yes," the younger agent explains. "Former Special Agent Gibbs retired in May, but he is back on a limited capacity to help NCIS with a case. We didn't have time to issue temporary credentials since it's a matter of - " he steels himself for the lie " - national security."

"Oh, so he's a consultant?" Gibbs and Kenji share a look, then both of them nod. "Wow! That must be pretty sweet. Tell me, Mr. Gibbs, how's the pay?"

He shrugs. "I'll let you know as soon as I find out."

"What? You're working for NCIS and they're not even paying you? I thought retirement would be all about private jobs and living off your pension." The guard cocks an eyebrow, shakes his head. "This must be one heck of a case for you to donate your time."

Gibbs just glares at him until Kenji asks: "Are we clear to go through?"

"Yeah, yeah, oh yeah." The guard stumbles as he pulls back the rope. "Enjoy your visit to the Capitol, gentlemen."

"Where's the press conference on military spending?" Gibbs asks as he and Kenji head through the check-point.

"Room B-46, southwest corner of the building. But – " the guard checks his watch " – it's supposed to end in a few minutes. I doubt you'll make it over there in - "

Without waiting for the guard to finish, Gibbs bolts in the direction he points. Behind him, he hears Kenji offer his thanks to the guard and an exasperated sigh. Then his dress shoes slap on the marble floor as the agent struggles to keep up. His consistent wheezing lets Gibbs knows that Kenji's still alive back there...and somehow, managing to not fall behind.

Gibbs sprints past the tourists who admire the artwork of old masters on the walls underneath the dome and its mosaic ceilings. But he doesn't bother to take in the sights, just keeps running until the hallway dead-ends and he hangs a left, leading them deeper into the Capitol. As he rushes towards the back of the building, the numbers painted on the wood doors grow sequentially higher. When a large group of people with camera equipment amble past, Gibbs figures the conference must have just finished.

Only a few more doors pass until he reaches a door labeled B-46 in black, block lettering. He slides to a stop just as two men in Navy dress whites exit. One of them wears a Lieutenant's uniform, while the other wears ribbons and four stars emblazoned on his chest.

_Admiral John McGee._

Gibbs can't believe how much Tim resembles the man until their eyes meet. While his youngest agent's gaze radiates kindness, his father's is devoid of any emotion. The look sends a chill down Gibbs' spine. His son is missing, but Gibbs wouldn't know it by looking at him.

_Maybe he doesn't know what happened to McGee yet._

The Lieutenant steps forward, putting his body in between Gibbs and John.

"Excuse me, sir, can I help you?" he asks, his tone betraying the question.

"I need to speak to the Admiral," Gibbs replies.

"You just missed the press conference, sir. I'm sorry." He opens the planner in his hands. "If you'd like to make an appointment, I can set one up for you. As you can imagine, the Admiral is a very busy man."

Gibbs shifts to reclaim John's stare. "It's about his son."

But John doesn't move, just says: "Lieutenant, I'll meet you back at the office."

"But sir, you have a meeting in – "

"Then cancel it, Patrick."

"Uh – " the Lieutenant's eyes dart between John and Gibbs " – yes sir, I'll see you back at the office. What would you like me to do about the rest of your day?"

"Clear it."

"Sir, yes, sir." He gives an obedient nod. "I'll send the car when you're ready."

The Lieutenant shifts his weight, lingers for a moment. Then without another word, he strides down the hallway… right past a red-faced Kenji, who shuffles forward with his arms hugged tightly to his chest. Gibbs holds his hand up, stopping the younger agent several yards away. Breathing hard, he slumps against the wall, then slides to the floor. His gasping breaths echo through the cavernous hallway.

Squaring his shoulders, Gibbs studies John's face. The deep creases on the Admiral's forehead and between his brows tell of a life spent in deep melancholy. His sandy hair is immaculate despite the hat that rests under his right arm. His stance is as rigid and unyielding as Gibbs'.

Eventually, Kenji pushes to his feet and yells, "Excuse me, sir, but did you find out whether he knows anything about Agent McGee?"

Something that resembles a snort leaves John. "My son gets abducted and this is the best NCIS can do? A washed up special agent and – " he jerks his head to where Kenji leans against the wall for support "- that guy? It's good to see how high Timothy ranks on their priority list."

Rage courses through Gibbs' veins, red-hot and electrifying. He flexes his hands into fists, feeling his muscle beg for their first strike in years. John doesn't move, doesn't even flinch. He just jerks his chin at Gibbs, almost egging him on. But the former agent stops himself, grinds his teeth instead.

_We're wasting precious time.  
_

So he jabs his finger toward Kenji. " 'That guy' spent four years as an information analyst for the CIA before he joined NCIS. Believe me, you want him helping us to find your son. McGee might be the best one for the job, but Suzuki's a damn good second."

John shrugs, unconvinced. "And what about you, Former Agent Gibbs? What do you bring to the table?"

"I won't rest until I bring him home alive."

The silence stretches as John clenches his jaw. "Timothy wouldn't even be in this predicament, if it weren't for you." His features twist in disgust, his tone growing more acidic. "He was supposed to join the Navy right out of high school, but his mother and I let him indulge his Ivy League fantasy with MIT. Then it was Johns Hopkins. As if that wasn't enough, he spent three years wasting away as a case agent in Norfolk. I'd just convinced him to enlist when you scooped him up and made him a field agent. Did you know that he's the first McGee in five generations not to join the Navy?" His eyes narrow at Gibbs. "Instead of serving his country, he runs around Washington, playing cops and robbers. And now, this..."

Gibbs shakes his head, crosses his arms. "He deserves to live out his dream, not yours."

"And do you think that includes being taken hostage?"

"It doesn't matter." Just as John starts to reply, Gibbs blurts out: "Your son's going to die unless you help us. Is that what you want?"

John steps back, surprise passing over his face. "Of course not." He lets out a laugh, sick and strangled. "I want Timothy home alive as much as you do. Even though we aren't close, he's still my son…what do you think I'm trying to do?"

"Right now, - " Gibbs eyes him carefully " - I don't know."

"I'm doing everything they tell me to. Keep up appearances, send the ransom and wait for instructions."

Gibbs' blood turns to ice. "You already sent the money?"

"Only half. They said, 'half up front, half on delivery.' The e-mail said it keeps everyone honest. Who am I to argue? It's not like I have a lot of bargaining power." He shakes his head, licks his lips. "I don't think these men are amateurs."

"That's because they aren't. But why didn't you report it to NCIS?"

"Because I was explicitly told not to contact your agency or they'd give me directions to Tim's body." John checks back on Kenji, then says quietly: "You had children once, Gibbs. You would do - have done - everything for them, am I correct?"

Crossing his arms tighter, Gibbs narrows his eyes. "This isn't about me. It's about McGee."

They square off for long beats until John relents: "Then tell me how you plan to bring Timothy home. Alive."

Taking a step back, Gibbs presses his lips together. His mind races through options and scenarios as he starts to pace around the hallway. Abductions were never his forte; too many variables and players on a deadline. Give him a murder and he could doggedly hunt dowm every lead to guilty party. But abductions made his stomach churn. One misstep and the victim ended up in the morgue.

He scrubs his face with his hands, trying to chase away the images of Tim on Ducky's slab.

"We let NCIS handle their investigation while we – " Gibbs considers who he's dealing with " – we follow the instructions. Do you know where the meeting is?"

John shrugs. "I haven't gotten the e-mail yet. But if that's the plan, then there might be a problem."

"What's that?" Gibbs asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Dropping his gaze to the floor, John traces his fingers along his ribbons. "I already liquidated most of my assets to pay the first half of the ransom. I don't know if I'll be able to get enough for the second. My financial adviser is trying to access my retirement, but those accounts have rules and regulations. They're more subject to scrutiny. So I made other arrangements, just in case."

Gibbs heads over, features tight. "What do you mean?"

"That's my business, Gibbs. A man protects his family, regardless of the costs. You of all people should be able to understand that." John looks up with a glare that rivals the fury in Gibbs'. "We work together for the meet-up so we can cover all angles. What I've set in motion is already done and I will not stop it. You let that play out on its own and don't ask questions." The words hang as John extends his hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Considering his lack of options, he shakes it. As he debates how to uncover John's contingency plan, Gibbs says: "Done. Now, what's the amount of money you need for the rest of the ransom?"

John looks away, his cheeks blanching. "Just under half a million. Cash."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**4:32pm – Unknown Place –**

Soft, comfortable, that's the first thing Tim feels as consciousness slowly returns. It's almost like being encased in a cloud. He doesn't get a chance to enjoy it before his head begins to pound. A moan escapes his throat, but dies in his mouth.

Something – he works his tongue around – something is in his mouth. He reaches to push it away, but he can't move. He jerks on his wrists, not surprised to feel the plastic rip into his raw flesh again.

His eyes crack for a quick survey: floral print duvet, cheap wood sidetable and an alarm clock that flashes midnight. Through his blurry vision, he can almost discern another other bed on the opposite side of the room. It looks like its piled high with weapons…or one of his captors is taking a nap. He closes one eye, squints, but it doesn't bring anything into closer focus. His vision still swims with brilliant, hazy squiggles.

Since he doesn't know what's there, he just lies still, feigning sleep. Even though his body doesn't move, his mind races as fast as his heart.

_Where the hell am I?_

He pulls a deep breath, catches the scent of industrial bleach and mildew.

_Start with something you can feel, touch…just like Gibbs and Tony always said._

He hazards another slit-eyed glance. With his eyesight slightly more focused, he thinks he makes out a television sitting on a plywood dresser. Underneath the garble of the talk show, he manages to pick up Dozer's whispers and the sound of someone typing. That's a noise that he'd recognize anywhere.

_They're still here and we're in a hotel room._

He squints at the clock, –

_How long was I out?_

-but he realizes that the numbers haven't changed. They still flash midnight.

_It could be anytime. I could be anywhere…_

Panic catches in his throat, bringing bile to his tongue. He dry-heaves into the gag. Even though his stomach's empty, even though there's nothing to bring up, the nervous organ still makes itself known. He coughs, trying to slow his breathing. If he vomits, he's as good as dead…

The pile of equipment jumps off the adjacent bed, rushes over. So it was a person...

Hobgoblin blurs into focus. Just as Tim coughs again, he yells: "He's going to puke! Grab the trashcan."

There's a flurry of activity above him as Tim lies there, begging his stomach to stop. But it doesn't, it rolls around in his abdomen, bouncing off his ribs and other organs. Just as the vomit rises, Hobgoblin yanks the gag out of Tim's mouth and pushes the agent to the side of the bed. A strong hand immobilizes him as he lurches, bringing up everything and nothing. He hasn't eaten since Tony made him stop for doughnuts on their way back from lunch yesterday. Once his stomach is empty, Hobgoblin releases his shoulder, lets the agent roll away from the vile stench.

But they don't leave him alone; Maui eases him up and forces a water bottle to his lips. The cold liquid chases away the horrible taste of terror and yesterday's Boston Creme. When it runs dry, Tim presses his lips together, swallows hard.

"Thank you," he whispers.

Maui cracks a smile, nods.

Something about the entire exchange feels so alien. Hostage and captor sharing a moment of kindness, reminding each other of their humanity. Emptiness blossoms in Tim's gut, threatening to swallow him. The smallest mercies cut the deepest, telling him that he probably shouldn't wish death on his captors. Maybe – just maybe – they should all get to go home alive, but with some in the back of a squad car.

When Maui moves away, Tim gets a better view of the hotel room.

It's a standard, albeit rundown fare: two double beds, small chipped wood table with warped chairs and peeling wallpaper. Stanford and Dozer are at the table, examining something on the laptop screen. As he points to the screen, Dozer makes a notation on something that might be a map.

The old ray-tube television plays a talk-show that Tim doesn't recognize, but holds Hobgoblin's interest quite effectively. He glances past all of it, finds the exit several yards away. It isn't far, but with his legs zip-tied together it might as well be a football field – or ten – away.

_I'm not getting out of this anytime soon. Maybe it's okay to wait for an opening._

With a sigh, Tim focuses on the television, trying to follow his own advice. On screen, women present unattractive babies and fight with even more unattractive men about their paternity. The show bleeds into another with a different hosts and even more distasteful guests. Just when Tim has had enough, a commercial for used cars plays. The dealer, dressed as Uncle Sam, struts around the set, pointing to overpriced, rusted-out models.

"We've got the best prices in the City of Brotherly Love," he promises with a wink.

Tim's breath hitches.

_What the hell am I doing in Philadelphia?_

But he doesn't have time to muse about his unexpected road trip. When the talk show credits play, Hobgoblin shifts from his spot on the other bed so he can face Tim. He gives the hostage a long, cold stare.

"So are you ready to go to home, Agent McGee? It must be pretty exciting."

Tim swallows audibly, but doesn't respond.

This obviously isn't his home, never has been and never will be. They must have another reason for bringing him all the way here from Washington. One that he doesn't want to think about.

"Don't start, Hob," Dozer warns, glancing up from his task. "This is almost over."

"For who? For him – " Hobgoblin points at Tim, then gestures to the group " - or for us? It'll never be over for us, Dozer. We're stuck in limbo, all we get to do after this is disappear."

"But we all agreed on that," Stanford interjects, looking away when Hobgoblin glares at him.

"Yeah, but it doesn't make it any easier. Don't we deserve to go home too?"

Dozer shakes his head. "Nope, we follow the plan: adapt and move on. It's been made pretty clear damn that we can't go back. Don't you remember that we're technically dead? Or did you forget about that little fact?"

Working his hands into fists, Hobgoblin lets out a ragged exhale. His features screw in anger, but eventually, he sinks down onto the opposite bed. When he glances over at Tim, a chill meanders down the agent's spine. They hold each other's gaze, neither one wanting to be the first to break it.

"If we're going to disappear anyway, Dozer," Hobgoblin says, his eyebrows rising, "then shouldn't we tell Agent McGee how his country treats their heroes?"


	8. Chapter 8

**5:32pm – Somewhere Outside Philadelphia –**

"You aren't a hero," Tim says, his voice heavy with disgust.

When Hobgoblin rises from the other bed, Tim realizes the mistake. Setting his jaw, he steels himself for a strike that doesn't come. Instead, Hobgoblin slides in front of the television to appraise the agent.

"Have you ever seen combat, Agent McGee?" When Tim looks away, Hobgoblin snorts. "Yeah, you don't look like the type. I did three tours in Afghanistan and spent four years away from my family. I served my country with honor, just like I was supposed to. But - "

"Come on, Hob," Dozer interrupts, "that's enough."

Hobgoblin shakes his head. "Don't you think Agent McGee's probably sitting here, waiting for his country to save him? Doesn't he deserve to know they're not coming?"

Panic rises in Tim's chest like an ocean's tide. He just assumed NCIS would be searching for him and Tony. In fact, he never believed anything different. The possibility that NCIS might leave him here - in this grimy hotel room with men claiming to be war veterans - never even crossed his mind.

"What – " Tim swallows hard " - do you mean?"

When Hobgoblin glances at Dozer, the leader rolls his eyes and turns back to his task.

"Operation Sunfire," Hobgoblin says as though it explains everything.

_Why does this sound so familiar?_

Tim racks his brain, grasping for any connection. He knows he saw Operation Sunfire somewhere before, but he has no clue where. He closes his eyes, retracing his steps until he recalls how he found out about it. During a late night on their last case, he found a hidden file, buried deep in their latest victim – Zachery Mitchell's - service records. He debated about hacking the confidential information, but he decided against it since the case seemed open and shut.

Now, he wishes he took the time to access the file's contents.

"I don't know anything about that," Tim says.

"Of course, you wouldn't. It's above your pay grade." Hobgoblin huffs, crosses his arms. "Several members of my unit were tasked with a covert mission during our last tour. Our orders were to eliminate a key member of the Taliban responsible for leading an anti-American sect in Kandahar. My platoon and I – " the other captors now watch with rapt interest " - were captured during that mission."

"I didn't know Americans were taken prisoner in Afghanistan," Tim replies, his brow furrowing.

Anger tightens Hobgoblin's face. "That's because no one knew we were still alive."

Tim leans back against the headboard. "Except for Zachery Mitchell..."

"Bingo," Hobgoblin says, clapping his hands. "Rumor has it that Spiderman told our unit that he saw our bodies. So everyone turned tail and ran, they left us for dead."

"So you murdered him for payback," Tim surmises.

The members of the group eye each other nervously, but no one speaks up. Instead, the quartet shakes their heads. As an uneasy silence rolls over the room, Tim begins to regret the accusation.

If they've already committed one murder, what's another?

Dozer steps forward. "That's where you're wrong, Agent McGee. We paid Spiderman a visit. Just to show him that we were alive and well, no thanks to him. What he did after we left, well," he shrugs flippantly, "that was his choice."

Studying his captors' faces, Tim decides it isn't the time to accuse them of murder again. Four trained military personnel versus one bound agent. The odds certainly aren't in his favor.

So he nods carefully, changes the topic. "How did you get home?"

"We waited for our team - " Hobgoblin settles in his stance " - but after a few months, we realized they weren't coming. We were on our own. So we escaped, took care of each other and managed to get stateside. Imagine our surprise when we got here and found out we were already dead..."

"Why didn't you come in? Tell someone what happened?"

Maui chuckles, chimes in: "So we could finish our tours and get ditched again?"

Tim presses his lips together. "Don't you have families? What about them?"

Based on Maui and Dozer's reactions, they don't seem to have anyone important. Stanford's too busy with his computer to even pay attention to the conversation anymore. But when Hobgoblin's back stiffens, Tim knows he hit a nerve.

All he needs is one of them to consider letting him go. If he can convince Hobgoblin that he might see his family again, maybe this new – spontaneous - plan might just work.

He watches Hobgoblin turn away. "Don't you think your family misses you?"

"Actually, I know they don't." Hobgoblin toys with his left ring finger, drawing Tim's attention to the wedding band. "I headed straight home as soon as we got here. My wife – my former wife – had already married one of my best friends and didn't wait too long to get knocked up." He lets out a heartbroken laugh. "I wasn't even gone five months and she moved on – " he snaps his fingers " – just like that. When I heard my little girl call my friend, 'daddy,' I walked away..."

Tim tries again, "But think about – "

"Agent McGee, shut up," Dozer snaps, then jerks his head towards the door. "Hobgoblin, take a walk."

"But Dozer, I'm – "

"It wasn't a suggestion."

After a clipped nod, Hobgoblin stalks to the door. A small patch of sunshine sneaks inside before the door slams, extinguishing with it Tim's hopes for escape. When Dozer stops a few feet from Tim, the agent drops his gaze to the stained bedspread.

Stanford fiddles with his laptop, undisturbed, while Maui suddenly finds a spot on the wall interesting.

"Look," Dozer says, his voice unnervingly soft, as he leans closer, "I know what you're trying to do. Believe me, we tried it too. Reasoning with your captors, humanizing them and yourself. It didn't work for us and it won't work for you."

Tim holds Dozer's gaze. "Then what?"

"There isn't anything you can do, Agent McGee, but watch and wait." Sighing, Dozer shrugs. "You and Agent DiNozzo, you're both just a job. Someone paid his way, so we delivered him. And when your dad pays the rest of yours, you go home. Plain and simple."

"And if he doesn't?"

Dozer's hand moves towards the gun on his hip. "It's best not think like that."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**6:03pm – St. Boniface Medical Center – Chevy Chase, MD –**

_Darkness surrounds him. The air is hot and thick, suffocating him with the stench of cigarette smoke and his own breath. He hangs his head, pulls at the zip tie binding his hands. The vice-like grip on his shoulder forces him forward, but he doesn't fight back._

_He has no reason to. His partner – the subordinate he swore to protect – is dead._

_Whatever fate awaits him is one that he deserves._

_His feet pound against the wood floor, the scratching noise competing with the sound of his struggled breathing. When the temperature dips slightly, he considers where they're taking him. He wonders whether this is what Tim felt before he –_

_Something catches in his throat, but he tells himself it's just a cough._

_Mourning is not something he does, so atonement and penance will have to suffice._

_Suddenly, the grip on his arm jerks sideways, nearly toppling him over. Someone grunts, then curses._

_"Tony, run!"_

_His head jerks up. "McGee, you're alive!"_

_"Yeah, we can talk about it later." A familiar touch grazes his chest_. _"Come on, Tony, move!"_

_Hope swells through him as he yanks himself free. Maybe they will make it home after all._

_Just as the grip releases on his shoulder, a fist slams into his face. He drops to the ground, blue stars dancing through the darkness. He tries to curl into himself, but a boot rams into his gut, sucking the life from his lungs. Unconsciousness lingers by his side, desperately trying to lure him away._

_His brain screams for him to hold on, just stay here…in the moment._

_He hears the struggle, feels the thud of Tim's body against the floorboards. There's the click of a rifle and he begs whatever deity listens to let him go deaf so he doesn't hear the shot._

_But it doesn't come._

_Instead, the hands yank him up, steady him. He tries to stay awake, tries to fight for him…for Tim. But his body won't work, won't even support his own weight._

_When his knees give way, he murmurs those forbidden words, "McGee, I'm sorry."_

"McGee!" Tony yells, bolting upright.

But it isn't dark anymore. Instead, it's bright, almost too bright to handle. He squints, taking in the blindingly white walls and the picture window with its blazing sunlight. Something behind him beeps incessantly and it takes him a moment to realize it matches his heartbeat. When he reaches to rub his eyes, he notices the IV buried in the crook of his left wrist and the sling immobilizing his right.

_What the hell? How did I get here?_

The room is empty, save for him and a computer set-up in the corner. Right above the door, a small television plays the evening news on mute. He blankly watches the pretty commentator's lips move when his vision suddenly blurs and the ache in his head starts.

_I just need a minute and then –_

he eases himself back against the pillow –

_I'll be fine._

Tony blinks again, jolting himself awake. The quiet thud of goth rock coming from the computer set-up tells him that Abby must be here, holding a vigil for them. A thankful smile haunts his lips until he notices the figure slumped in the visitor's chair. The years have taken their toll on a face he hasn't seen since his graduation from the police academy.

His father manages a small smile and Tony's chest tightens. Even though they haven't shared one since his mother died, Tony lets his fade away. He peers at his father's face, almost certain that the man is a hallucination…like that moment where your life flashes before your eyes.

"Dad?" he asks, his voice rasping.

Reaching over, Senior grips his son's arm. "I came as soon as I heard."

Tony jerks back, recoiling from the touch. Based on the weight of his father's hand, this moment is very, very real. Senior flinches, leans back to toy with the coffee cup in his hand.

"Dad, what did you do?" Tony asks.

Senior doesn't look up. "What do you mean?"

His eyelid twitches and he throws his left hand out at the hospital room. "This! You almost got me killed! Who'd you rip off this time?"

The silence stretches and Tony notices Abby creep out from behind her makeshift lab. Her face is grim, her signature pigtails replaced by long, limp tendrils. The CafPow in her hands could probably fill a swimming pool, but she doesn't buzz around like she usually does under their influence. Instead, she hovers with a nervous energy that makes a pit grow in Tony's stomach.

"One of my investors got impatient," Senior finally says.

"Impatient? That's what you call getting kidnapped by four guys with assault rifles?" Tony licks his lips. "How much money did you steal this time?"

"Borrowed," Senior murmurs, holding up a finger, "I borrowed it. I had another deal in the works so I could pay him back, but it didn't happen fast enough. I had no idea that they'd come after you. I'm sorry about what happened to you and Agent McGee."

His father saying Tim's name makes Tony wince.

He turns away, taking in the hospital room. Where is Tim anyway? Shouldn't he be in the vacant bed rambling on about the latest patch for his first person shooter game or spouting some techno-babble that Tony would feign interest in?

"Junior, I really am sorry this time."

Ignoring his father, Tony glances to Abby. "Where's McGee?"

When her lower lip juts out, his heart rises in his throat.

"Is he – " Tony searches for the courage to say the word " – dead?"

Abby shakes her head. "Gibbs and Kenji are trying to find him..."

_First, Dad? Then Gibbs? Maybe I really am hallucinating…_

Raking his good hand through his hair, he crashes against the pillow. After rushing over, Abby clings with the bedrail with white knuckles. She stares at him as though he might disappear if she blinks.

"Are you okay, Tony?" she whispers.

He chuckles. "Fine, Abs. I just thought you said Gibbs was looking for McGee."

"He came back home to find you and Timmy. Barrows and his team are helping too. So far, I think – " she grabs Tony's hand " – it's working."

Pushing himself up, he straightens his hospital gown. "So what'd ya got, Abs?"

She catches him up to speed, recounts every detail from his and Tim's abduction to Operation Sunfire to what she knows about his captors. When she finishes, she takes a long swig of her CafPow and watches him with mournful eyes.

"So we've got a bunch of SEALs gone mercenary?" Tony asks.

Abby nods. "It seems that way."

He presses his lips together, takes in the almost empty room. "Where is everyone?"

"Barrows and Eloise are at NCIS, trying to figure out what happened during Operation Sunfire so we can hunt down the bad guys. Gibbs and Kenji are with Timmy's dad, trying to get in touch with them." She takes another swig of her CafPow. "And no one really knows what Ziva's doing."

"No one ever knows what Ziva's doing," he replies, cracking a grin.

She gives a half-shrug. "That's true…"

"Okay," Tony starts, swinging his legs out of the bed, "then we need to – "

Even though his vision greys, he still pushes to his feet. When Abby grips his shoulder, she gently shoves him back into the bed. "Tony, you're supposed to rest. We don't know anything yet."

Resting on the edge of the mattress for a moment, he waits for his head to clear. When another hand squeezes on his shoulder, the grip is stronger and more solid than Abby's. He opens his eyes to see his father's face blur into focus. Concern deepens the wrinkles on Senior's face.

"Dad," he whispers, "you need to leave."

"But Junior," Senior says, his voice breaking, "I never meant for any of this. I did what I – "

"Just go, Dad, you've done enough this time." When his father lingers, almost begging to stay, until Tony adds: "Please, just leave me alone."

With a heartbroken nod, Senior gives his son one last, long look. Then he heads out of the hospital room. Burying his free hand to his face, Tony lets Abby yank him into a bear hug. He leans against her shoulder, ignoring the ache in his arm, as he breathes in her familiar, comforting scent.

She offers him her CafPow and he takes a sip, cringing at the flavor.

He groans. "I don't know how you drink this stuff."

"It grows on you, just like someone I know." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Look, I don't know anything yet so just rest, okay? Once I do, then you can help…"

He laughs half-heartedly, lets her ease him back into the bed. When she pulls the blanket up, he decides he's going after Tim as soon as his head stops spinning. All he needs is some information about the meeting with Tim's dad or their location.

_Anything. I'll take anything._

Once he's tucked in, Abby wraps her arms around him, places her head against his chest. There's desperation – a weakness – in her embrace. The tears soak through the hospital gown as she cries silently.

Not knowing what to do, Tony kisses the top of her head…just like Gibbs always did.


	9. Chapter 9

**6:32pm – Somewhere outside Philadelphia –**

"Alright, Agent McGee, it's time," Dozer says, his hand resting on his sidearm.

Tim's back stiffens, his eyes growing wide. "For what?"

But Dozer doesn't reply, just jerks his head at the hostage. Hobgoblin moves to cut the zip-tie around Tim's ankles, then yanks him to his feet. The strong grip on his shoulder forces Tim towards the front of the hotel room.

His heart plummets.

_Oh my G-d, Dad didn't pay._

He swallows hard, fearing these are the last minutes of his life. He knows he should savor them, cling to these final seconds. But what is there to savor here? Bound and defeated in this dirty hotel room, hundreds of miles away from home.

When they stop at the bathroom, Hobgoblin stares expectantly at Dozer.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

Tim tries to jerk away, but Hobgoblin's grip holds tight.

_This is it._

Dozer pulls his weapon out. "Don't do anything stupid, got it?"

Tim doesn't understand, but still replies, "Yeah."

After a quick nod from the leader, Hobgoblin cuts the zip-tie from Tim's wrists. One hard shove sends the agent stumbling into the bathroom. The door slams behind him and he slumps against it, breathing slowly to calm his racing heart. When he notices his hands shake, he draws them to his chest.

So they aren't planning to kill him right now. This is just another small act of mercy that reminds Tim these men are still human after all.

He rests his heads against the door, lets the wood cool the sweat on his scalp. It takes a long time for his pulse to slow, his brain to clear.

And once he feels better, Tim finally realizes how long it's been since he relieved himself. He seizes the opportunity, then makes a point to wash his hands. Even though his clothes are filthy, just a part of him being cleansed makes feel him normal. Chuckling humorlessly, he shakes his head.

_Almost normal._

He glances up from the sink, catches his reflection in the mirror. The exhausted look in his eyes spirits his breath away. With his unkempt hair and bruised cheeks, he doesn't recognize himself anymore. Instead of a proud field agent, a broken man with no fight left stares back.

Hanging his head, he drops his eyes to the spigot.

_So that's why they let me go to the bathroom alone..._

Tim sighs and scrubs away the layer of dirt on his forearms. He doesn't know how he managed to get so dirty over the past day. Chewing his lower lip, he wonders whether it's really been that long. His watch is long gone and he has no idea how long he was unconscious. For all he knows, it might have been a weeks since he and Tony were separated.

His breath catches in his throat, but he shakes his head to chase the thoughts away. He can't - won't - consider Tony's fate right now.

Not when he can contemplate his own.

Shouldn't this ordeal be over by now? Shouldn't his father have paid the ransom?

A tendril of fear creeps through his gut.

What if his father didn't plan on paying?

It wouldn't surprise him. They'd never been close. In fact, his father called him a disappointment to the family name when they last spoke… the night before he joined Gibbs' team. And now, Tim expects him to pay some insane sum of money to secure his release. Like that will happen.

_What if Dad isn't the way out of here? And what if NCIS isn't coming either?_

His eyes jump back to his reflection.

_I might be on my own. What do I do now?_

"Stand on your own two feet, kid," he whispers to himself.

It's the same phrase his father said whenever Tim asked for help. Anything from money for college to martial arts lessons for fighting bullies was met with the same reaction. His father's smirk, the shake of his head and the words, 'Stand on your own two feet, kid.'

He never thought he'd say those to anyone, let alone himself. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Maybe it is time to follow his father's advice.

After drying his hands, he slinks to the bathroom door. As he lean against it, he barely makes out the conversation on the other side.

"…kill him?" Hobgoblin asks.

"If we don't get the money, we do what's necessary."

"But Dozer, he's like us. He doesn't know what his country – "

"We agreed on this, Hob," Dozer interrupts. "Take. Collect. Deliver. Kill, if necessary."

"Don't you think it's different this time?"

There's a laugh. "I can't wait to hear this logic."

"Agent McGee isn't a delivery where someone else is paying his way. We're the ones holding him for ransom." Hobgoblin sighs. "This isn't how we usually do things."

"So what?"

"Well, he's a federal agent, for starters." There's a long silence until Hobgoblin adds: "We don't commit murder unless we have to, Doze. And I don't think we would with him."

Dozer chuckles. "The game changed, Hob. Get used to it."

Tim's blood turns to ice. It's just like Dozer promised earlier, the group would have no problem killing him when the time comes. The agent grits his teeth, lets his mind whirl with possibilities about what could happen. Every single one ends with a bullet in his brain. His heart kick-starts, pounding away with an insane rhythm. Since he doesn't have time to formulate a complex plan, he settles for Tony's earlier one.

Run like hell. Don't look back.

Holding his breath, Tim twists the doorknob.

_It's now or never._

He slams his body against the door, surprised when it collides with someone. Hobgoblin gives a surprised yell and based on the following thud, Tim figures he knocked him over. Without bothering to check, the agent darts out of the hotel room.

The intense sunlight blinds him, but he doesn't have time to gather his bearings. All he can make out is the outline of a huge parking lot, shapes of cars parked haphazardly about. His feet pound against the steaming asphalt as he runs.

"Stop!" Dozer yells from somewhere behind him.

But Tim doesn't. He propels himself forward as fast as his weak legs will allow.

Snippets of his location blur focus as his eyes adjust. The deserted lot with several decrepit cars scattered around. Dead ahead is a highway, thick with rush-hour traffic. Just to the left, there's a seedy bar. To the right, a boarded-up restaurant. He knows the bar will bring safety and a phone, but he would have to double back…into the path of his abductors.

So he bolts for the road, hoping he can flag down a motorist before someone catches up.

Tim's almost there when a hand grabs his arm, flinging him sideways. He lands face-first against the side of car. He stumbles backwards, blinking stars from his vision. His head pounds, but he has to move. He has to keep going.

Just as he turns around, Dozer pins Tim against the car with his forearm. Before he has a chance to fight, a gun digs into his ribs. He sags back, defeated and breathing hard.

Maui and Stanford loom behind the leader, their eyes scanning the parking lot for witnesses. But the only person here is an overweight man who staggers out of the bar. He glances over at the group, then shakes his head as though it's Tim's fault for being in this situation. When the man stumbles down the street, Dozer turns his attention to Tim.

He cracks a half-smile. "I didn't think you had it in you, Agent McGee."

Tim lets Dozer haul him off the vehicles. With a weapon buried in his side and an iron-like grip on his arm, the agent is marched forward. There isn't another person on the entire way back to the hotel room. Based on the way Maui and Stanford clutch their hidden side-arms, Tim decides it might be a good thing. He doubts they'd have any problem killing a would-be Good Samaritan.

As soon as they're back inside, Dozer shoves Tim roughly to the opposite side of the room. He staggers forward, stopping at the sight of Hobgoblin. Seated in one of the chairs, the man leans his head back with his hands against his nose. Blood sneaks through his fingers, trailing down his cheeks.

"I didn't realize how bad that was," Maui mutters, scrambling for the medical kit.

While Maui tends to Hobgoblin, Dozer gives Tim another shove toward an empty chair.

"Sit," he orders.

After Tim complies, Dozer zip-ties his ankles together. When he leans forward with his hands behind his back, Dozer tosses the rest of the ties on the adjacent bed. Instead, he slides over the table where maps and Stanford's mobile laptop have taken over. Right next to them are a stack of several pizza boxes.

_I must have been in the bathroom longer than I thought._

As Dozer opens one, the familiar scent filled the room, making Tim's mouth water. Dozer rips the lid off, drops two slices onto it. When he offers them to Tim, the agent shakes his head.

"I'm not hungry," he says, ignoring his stomach's protests.

"You should eat before I change my mind," Dozer warns.

Before he can decline again, Hobgoblin adds his two cents: "Just take it, Agent McGee. It might be last you get for a while."

Recalling Dozer and Hobgoblin's earlier conversation, Tim flinches. With a quick nod, he accepts – and finishes - the proffered food before it can be taken away. While the others eat their dinner, Tim chugs the bottle of water Stanford gave him. As soon as everyone is done, Maui binds Tim's hands again. Then there's a prick on his arm and he knows exactly what it means.

But while the world blurs away, he can't bring himself to care.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**7:38pm – The Pentagon, Washington, DC – Office of Rear Admiral John (No Middle Initial) McGee –**

"You finished yet, Suzuki?" Gibbs growls.

Kenji swivels in the chair, wide-eyed. "Uh, sir, you asked me to add half a million dollars into Admiral McGee's account. Half a million dollars that we don't have." He makes a face. "So I need to fabricate banking records, spoof the – "

"Are you done?" Gibbs interrupts.

"Not yet, Sir. Work like this takes time."

With a huff and a half-nod, Gibbs releases the younger man back to his work. As though trying to ignore the eyes boring into his back, Kenji dips closers to the laptop. His fingers slam against the keyboard with a surprising ferocity, but Gibbs doubts he makes any headway. Those random lines of characters flash across the screen, vanishing as quickly as they come.

_Maybe I should have just asked Abby._

Cracking his neck, Gibbs gives lets his gaze wander around the admiral's office. It's smaller than he expected for someone of John's standing. Buried deep in the bowels of the Pentagon's East Wing, it barely has enough space for the desk, chair and the rows of bookcases.

Gibbs steps away from Kenji, rakes his eyes over the collection books. The tomes of Naval history and America's World Wars are organized alphabetically, but every so often an odd novel about espionage and war games breaks the monotony. One battered and dog-eared novel lies on its side and Gibbs rights it, surprised to unearth a dusty picture frame.

It's an image of a gangly-limbed Tim, wearing a cap and gown. A much shorter girl has her arms wrapped around his waist. Their identical, goofy smiles hold the Gibbs' attention and he uses his sleeve to clean the glass.

Stopping his frantic pacing, John joins Gibbs by the shelves. He takes the frame, a wistful look washing over his features as he runs his fingers over the image. The layers of dust fall away and he manages a haunted smile.

"It's believe to think that I almost missed this," John says, almost to himself.

Gibbs cocks his head. "What do you mean?"

John scrubs his eyes, clearing cobwebs off his memories. "I was supposed to deploy the day before Timothy graduated from MIT. I requested to delay our departure so I could be there. Surprisingly, my superiors did. It was worth it, even though I'm still paying off those favors." He lets out a hollow chuckle. "But to watch my son graduate from college at nineteen was something I wouldn't miss for the world."

Gibbs nods. "You must be proud."

"I was." John flinches, shakes his head. "I still am."

"As you damn well should be."

A tense silence rolls over the pair and Gibbs catches Kenji peering over cautiiously. All it takes is the jab of a finger towards the computer screen and the agent turns back to his project.

"I am, Gibbs," John starts, "but you have no idea what's expected of a Naval family like us. We don't have the luxury of – "

A quiet knock at the door cuts John off. And it's just as well because Gibbs can't guarantee he'd let John finish that statement. John squeezes between the desk and bookcases to answer it. Just over his shoulder, Gibbs catches the top of the lieutenant's head. While the man's presence doesn't pique Gibbs' interest, the aroma of his favorite coffee certainly does. He hasn't had it since he left for Mexico.

_If that doesn't help me think, nothing will._

"I brought everything you required, sir," Patrick says, passing John a pile of take-out containers. "Even that special coffee, Mr. Gibbs requested. I had to go half-way across the city for it."

John nods. "Thank you, lieutenant. Well done."

Even though the admiral steps away from the doorway, the aide lingers, his eyes scanning the office.

"Sir?" he asks.

"Yes, lieutenant?"

"Permission to speak freely?"

After he places the containers on the desk, John shrugs as though he has nothing left to lose.

"Granted."

"I must admit I'm growing a bit concerned, sir. Your behavior over the past day has been – " Patrick takes a deep breath, searching for courage " – erratic, at best. First, there was an unscheduled meeting with that gentleman last night, and then you bring in Mr. Gibbs and Agent Suzuki this afternoon. I apologize for my forwardness, sir. But what's going on?"

The mention of another person boils Gibbs' blood. While he remembers a passing reference to something at their first meeting, he didn't think John would have met with the abductors without telling him. But when his glare locks on John, the admiral sets his jaw. As he rivals the stare, Gibbs realizes anything is possible.

The pair silently square off until Patrick clears his throat. "Sir?"

"You're dismissed, lieutenant."

Patrick's mouth gapes. "Excuse me, sir?"

"Go home. You're on leave until next week."

"But I – "

"Leave, now!"

Straightening his stance, Patrick shoots John a quick salute. Then he eases the door shut.

"When were you going to tell me you met with the kidnappers?" Gibbs asks.

John shakes his head. "I didn't."

"Then who did you meet with?"

"My contingency plan," John replies.

Gibbs' glare deepens. "Who was it?"

Ignoring Gibbs, John grabs one of the take-out containers. He opens it, frowns and passes it to Kenji. The agent's eyes light up at the promise of dinner, but Gibbs wrestles it from his grasp.

"You can eat when you have something for me, Suzuki."

When Kenji makes a face , Gibbs makes him the target of his glare for a moment. Withering under the look, Kenji turns back to the computer, but his typing is much slower. Glancing back to John, Gibbs scoops his coffee off the desk. He takes a swig, trying to calm himself. All it takes is one misstep and John could kick him out of the office. He has no badge, no gun, no real purpose for being here. Just an unofficial backing of the family and friends of his former team.

But he can't let this go.

He watches the Admiral rip into his club sandwich.

"Who did you hire?" Gibbs asks.

"Someone I trust to find Timothy, if we can't."

"How – "

"We made a deal, Agent Gibbs." John drops his sandwich into the container, draws himself to his full height. "You wouldn't ask any questions, if I gave you access to certain information NCIS doesn't have."

Gibbs' eyes widen. "But if it impacts how I do my job, I need to know."

"Your job?" John laughs. "You don't have a job. You're only here for support since you know Timothy well and I respect his opinion of you. We play our part, my man plays his. Simple as that." John settles into his stance, juts his jaw out. "Two separate plans are in motion. One with us and one without us, Gibbs."

"So happens when this person finds McGee? He just brings him home?"

"That's what I paid him to do," John shoots back.

Gibbs swigs his coffee. "And what stops him from shaking you down?"

"That won't happen. But just in case, I built in a fail-safe. Timothy will be coming home alive."

"You should've – "

"Uh, excuse me, sir?" Kenji interjects, shrinking under Gibbs' stare again. When John glances over, he adds: "Other sir? I don't mean to interrupt, but your account just received an e-mail." When they don't move, he sighs like no one understands him. "It's from the kidnappers?"

Gibbs is the first by Kenji's side, but he can't make out the tiny typeset on the computer screen. If John weren't here, he'd fish out his reading glasses. But he thinks of them as a sign of weakness, his onus of aging. So he squints instead, but still can't decipher the fuzzy blobs.

He taps Kenji's shoulder. "What's it say, Suzuki?"

Kenji scans the screen. "Not much. It just says everything will take place in Philadelphia. There's an address where we're – " he glances to John, makes a face " – uh, other sir, you're supposed to go to get the location and time of the exchange."

John sucks in a deep breath. "Does it say anything about Timothy?"

"He's alive," Kenji replies, "for now. Plus, there's an attachment. Proof of life, maybe?"

"Why don't you open so we can find out, Suzuki?" Gibbs growls.

Flinching, he brings up a video file after a few clicks. The image of Tim lying on a bed with his eyes closed holds Gibbs' attention until Kenji hits play. Even though it's grainy, the jerky camera focuses on Tim's chest long enough to show a steady rise and fall. So he definitely was breathing when the video was made. The image swings to a television playing the introduction to Jeopardy. Then the image stops goes dead.

"I'm bringing up the time stamp," Kenji says.

"Don't need one." Gibbs taps the screen. "Jeopardy's on every night at seven. So as of – " he checks his watch " – an hour ago, McGee was still alive."

Kenji rubs his chin, considers. "That makes sense."

After rolling his eyes, Gibbs glances to John who's visibly shaken. His cheeks are colorless and perspiration pricks to his forehead. He drops his dinner to the floor, then sinks into a chair. While he buries his head in his hands, Gibbs leans over Kenji's shoulder.

"Send that to Abby," he orders quietly. "Then run a trace on the e-mail from here."

"Already on it, sir."

Nodding, Gibbs places Kenji's takeout container by his laptop. He steals a few French fries and eats them while he lets his brain replay the video. There wasn't much to go on there, but hopefully, Abby can work her magic and get him a solid lead. He won't let this go all the way to the final meet. He can't.

Even though Kenji looks ready to dig into his dinner, he whacks away at the keyboard. When the screen goes black momentarily, he sneaks a bite of his burger, then resumes his typing. Food will have to wait for a lead like this.

Gibbs perches on the desk, studies John as he sips his coffee.

"Does this get any easier?" John asks.

"Not when it's someone you care about."

With an agitated huff, he rises to pace the room. "I thought the second video would be easier to handle than the first, you know? I mean I already know Timothy's been abducted. But, G-d, I just can't stop thinking about what might happen."

Gibbs seizes the opening. "That's all the more reason you need to tell me about who you hired."

John looks up, shakes his head. "It's already in motion, Gibbs. Nothing can stop it at this point. You're just going to have to trust me."

"If I did, Admiral, then I wouldn't have to ask."


	10. Chapter 10

**7:45pm – 241 23rd St. N, Gateway District – Washington, DC –**

In the passenger seat of a Range Rover, Ziva David checks on her target through her binoculars. All of her traded intel and hounded contacts led her here. To the unassuming ranch at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. With its boarded up windows and missing mailbox, it seems to be the most likely candidate for next week's foreclosure auction.

Which means – she watches the surrounding houses' light flicker on – it should be deserted.

But her cohort does not share her view.

_As the Americans say, beggars cannot be pickers._

How she ended up here, working alongside an ex-Mossad double agent is something she prefers not to think about. Contact after contact told her of the freelancer hired to hunt down – and eliminate, if necessary – Tim's captors. It didn't take much to reach out and even less, to join him.

Now she dodges Barrows' calls, choosing instead to speak to Kenji because he doesn't ask questions. She feeds them just enough information to keep them going, but leave her one step ahead. Even though she knows this mission will end her tenure with NCIS, she cannot live with her friend's blood on her hands.

The ends to which she will go to protect her make-shift family surprise even her.

From the driver's seat, Malachi Melemed turns to her. The dying twilight catches in his deep-set eyes, turning his feature ghoulish. When his lips pull into a vicious smile, a chill races down her spine. This must be what it feels like to make a deal with the Devil.

_G-d forgive me._

"Shall we go?" he asks, loading a clip in his back-up weapon.

"You are satisfied they are here?" she replies, looking back through her binoculars.

The windows are still dark, even as the shadows invade the world outside.

"This is the place I expect them to be. We need to move before the streetlamps turn on."

She gives a half-nod. "Then we will leave now."

Slipping her binoculars away, Ziva retrieves an assault rifle from the backseat. It weighs heavy and foreign in her hands, but the cold metal still comforts her. Malachi mimics the motion, then slithers his tall, lithe frame out of the car. Pushing open her door, Ziva follows him into the soupy air. It threatens to suffocate her as she stalks across the lawn, her weapon raised.

Mid-way to the porch, Malachi gestures with his free hand toward the front door. After she nods, he slinks around the back of the house. While they don't have the manpower for a full-scale assault, they have the advantage of surprise…and their training.

Ziva creeps up the steps, not even feeling a floorboard creak under her weight. She tries the front door, shocked that it's unlocked. Pressing her lips together, she eases it open slightly and peers inside.

As far as she can tell, the house is empty.

She counts to thirty, gives Malachi enough time to get into position. Then she sneaks inside.

The house is smaller than she expects.

As soon as she enters, there is a tight living room with a pile of cracked plastic, bits of fabric and pieces of metal. Carnage she doesn't understand, and doesn't have time to make sense of. Frowning, she moves past the mess into the kitchen. That space does not look much better with its smashed cabinets and open refrigerator. Rotten food spills to the floor, making Ziva cringe.

"Clear," she whispers.

Rolling on the balls of her feet, she skulks back through the living room into a tiny hallway. At its end are a trio of miniscule bedrooms and a bathroom. She finds Malachi in one of the bedrooms.

"There is no one here," he announces.

She relaxes slightly, cradles the weapon to her chest. "Perhaps we did not have quality information."

Shaking his head, he rises from his crouch. "That I do not believe. They were here."

He flicks on a flashlight, using the beam to trace through the darkness. Bits of dust dance, twisting and spinning through the air like a blizzard. He moves through the room, searching the corners.

"It is empty," he says like she does not see it too.

"Should we try a different location?"

"They were here. That much I know."

He pushes past her to head into another bedroom, so she follows him. As soon as they arrive at the door, she notices the deadbolt on the door frame. It's to keep someone in, not out. She trails Malachi into the room, remaining silent as they both scan the tight space.

Wooden planks cover the only window, smothering any last bit of daylight that might sneak inside. Malachi's flashlight rakes across the rough floorboards, stopping dead in the center of the room.

The red smear almost glows in the beam.

Ziva gasps. "That is blood."

Malachi gives a distracted half-nod, crouches to touch the stain. "It is cold. This person, whoever they are, left long, long ago. But someone was certainly here."

"It could be Tony's," she surprises quietly.

"This Tony?" Malachi shoots her a sideways glance. "He was the one taken with McGee, correct?"

"Yes. He was recovered a few hours ago, but I – "

"Then this does matter."

Ziva's chest tightens, but she wants tell him how much Tony matters in his own right…not just his relation to Tim. But since he was already rescued, arguing this moot point will not help them find Tim any faster. But it still hurts to hear Malachi refer to her teammate referred to as nothing more than a complication. To him, the paying job is the only important one.

Rising to his feet, Malachi rakes the flashlight through the room again. It stops on a small, white strip of fabric. He bends to find pick it up. When he draws closer to Ziva, his features twist in confusion.

"Ermenegildo Zegna. What do you think it means?"

A laugh dies in her throat. "It is a man who makes suits."

"What is that? Some sort of code?" Malachi cocks his head, displays the tiny piece of cloth. "Like a riddle?"

"No, he is man who makes expensive suits. Tony likes him very much." Ziva pinches the bridge of her nose. "He told me how wonderful his new suit was yesterday morning. So perhaps he left a clue."

"Then we can conclude Tony and McGee were kept here. It is likely they were separated here as well."

Ziva shifts her weight, stare at Malachi. "What is next?"

He directs the flashlight back over the room. "Let us split to search the house. Then we shall decide our next move."

Without another word, Ziva slips back into the living room. She pulls the flashlight from her jacket pocket, flicks it on. Under the tunnel of light, shadows slip out from places they should not be. She moves to the pile of scrap metal, picks her way through it. It does not take long for her to figure out it is the remains of four cots, two folding chairs and a card table.

As she tosses the useless pieces aside, a piece of paper flutters from the ruins.

It is a small map, bisected by a river's outline.

Squinting in the low light, she can barely decipher the faded script.

Philadelphia Naval Yard.

_Could this be where they will go?_

She holds the paper as though it might vanish from her grasp. The edges wrinkle in her fingers, but he still clings tight to the only lead to her missing teammate. Her heart thuds in her chest as she debates what to do next.

To stick with Malachi or to return to the agency that took her in.

But it is not the agency she loves. It is the people. And if her parents taught her anything, it was to protect those you love no matter the costs. Even in this, her new life - away from her father and away from Mossad – she cannot escape their influence.

She slides her hands into her pocket, reaching for her phone. One call to NCIS would be enough to send Barrows and his team to rescue Tim. But with the agency comes rules, regulations, protocol. Red tape and missteps that could end up getting her friend killed.

Shifting her weight, she runs her thumb over the paper.

Rules and protocol are against her very nature. She was bred for efficiency, results. The outcome - not the process - is the only endgame. And that is to ensure Tim's survival, regardless of the costs. If it sends her back to Israel and Mossad, so be it.

Her friend will live. And right now, that is all that matters.

Her hand releases her phone as she crosses the room.

"Malachi," she calls quietly, "I have found something."


	11. Chapter 11

**9:09pm – St. Boniface Medical Center – Chevy Chase, MD –**

Consciousness returns to Tony in bits and pieces. First, it's the cool sheets under his fingertips, followed by the steady beat of the heart rate monitor. It takes a moment for his brain to refocus – to remember – he is safe and sound in the hospital, while Tim is still out there…somewhere.

But he doesn't have a chance to beat himself up as Abby's voice drones. He catches her tone – edgy and terrified – long before he comprehends the words.

" – can't trace it, Gibbs."

She pauses long enough for Tony to hold his breath.

Her sigh is long and low. "I know, Gibbs, I know. But these guys are good." Another pause. "Yeah, I know I'm better, but this e-mail came from an anonymous internet provider. You don't need anything, except for a computer connection to set one up. I could try to run the ISP and see if I can – " she huffs. "Okay, Gibbs, I'll try it. If not, I'll follow the money."

The clomping of her combat boots tells him she draws closer. So he eases back against the pillow, tries to even his breathing. Even though he's desperate for details, he won't blow his cover now. Not when he can get information out of Abby without harassing her.

"Tony's still asleep, Gibbs. The doctors say he probably will for a while. You know how those drugs hit him. But I'll call you as soon as he wakes up." She lets out a quiet huff. "No, you don't have to worry. I won't tell him."

She doesn't even bother with goodbye, just flips her phone closed. As she lingers by the side of the bed, Tony remains painfully still, but he feels her eyes boring a hole through him.

_I guess she's practicing her Gibbs' stare too._

"Tony," she whispers. "I know you're awake."

He opens his eyes. "Morning, Abs. Do you know just lied to Gibbs?"

"Not technically." With a tight smile, she holds up her hand to display crossed fingers. "If it helps a friend, it isn't a bad thing."

"He thinks I'm going to go after McGee."

She nods, like she believes it too. "Not thinks, knows."

_It's the way you trained me, Boss. Did you expect anything less?_

When Abby splits into a pair of twin goths, Tony lets his gaze wander to the drop ceiling. The tiles are pockmarked but the imperfections blur together into one giant mess. He slams his eyes closed, feeling his stomach roil. Tony swallows hard, barely managing to keep the acid down.

Almost instantaneously, Abby's hand grips his shoulder.

"Tony, are you – "

"I'm fine, Abs." He flashes a playboy grin, in spite of the sweat pouring down his face. "So what aren't you supposed to tell me?"

Her grasp never wavers as she fills him in on the details of the case: the untraceable e-mail from Tim's captors to John McGee draining his retirement fund for the ransom to Gibbs' plan for the meet. She even lets the time and location – the Philadelphia Naval Yard at 7am – slip out so casually that Tony almost misses it in her barrage of details.

"But Gibbs will find Timmy before then." Her voice trails off to leave out the implied, 'I hope.'

Tony pulls her into a tight hug. "He will, Abs. But we can help from here, right?"

She nods. "I need to double-check where that e-mail came from. Maybe I find a location of the original computer from here."

"And if you can't?"

Her shoulders rise as she emits a defeated sigh. "Then we're back to square one."

"So back to our abduction?" he offers.

"Yeah, but there isn't much there."

Tony doesn't know what to say as she wriggles out of his grasp. After she heads over to her makeshift lab, the thud of her keyboard echoes through the room. He leans back on the bed, stares at the ceiling for a long time. But with her typing and his monitor competing for his attention, he just can't think.

"How about some music, Abs?"

She cocks an eyebrow. "The nurses told me to 'turn off that racket' while you were still asleep. They said it might give you a nasty headache."

While the hospital staff might be right, Tony will gladly accept one if it helps bring Tim home alive. When he waves his hand at her, she clicks on her stereo. The dull thud of the bass is so quiet that it's barely audible, but Tony focuses on the mish-mash of guitars and chainsaws. Even though he knows he heard this recently, he just can't place it.

_Back to square one, to where this all began._

Suddenly, he realizes why the track sounds so familiar. It's the same one Abby listened to while she recounted their limited evidence in the Zachery Mitchell death.

What if this all started well before their abduction?

"Abs, what do you have on the Mitchell case?"

Her brow furrows as she looks over at him, almost trying to figure out what he's doing. But when he doesn't say anything else, she clicks through something on her computer.

"Powder residue on Mitchell's hand was consistent with the gun found at the scene. Only one bullet was missing from the magazine. Ballistics match the one Ducky pulled out of Mitchell's brain."

Pressing his lips together, Tony leans back against the bed. Mitchell's death has to be related to their abduction, but the pieces don't seem to fit together…yet. He stares at the ceiling, hopelessness and helplessness washing over him in waves.

How is he supposed to save Tim when he can't even make a simple connection between two cases?

"Any progress on that e-mail, Abs?" he asks, instead.

"Not yet. The ISP declined my request for information without a warrant." Her features pinch in agitation as she shakes her fist. "Lucky for us, I've got another trick up my sleeve."

Based on the way she attacks her keyboard, Tony figures she's hacking into some database. So he leaves her to her work, leaning back against the bed. His head begins to swim, just like his vision.

He's almost ready to fall asleep again when a familiar figure appears in the doorway.

"Heya, Duck," Tony breathes.

"Every time you say that, Anthony, you remind me of Jethro."

With a wry smile, Donald Mallard heads into the room. Concern wears on his aging features, making him appear far older than his years. He takes a long moment to study Tony's face before he turns to Abby.

"Hello, Abigail," he offers, but she only shoots him a distracted wave.

Ducky drops his weathered briefcase to the floor and shucks off his unseasonably warm jacket. As he eases himself in the bedside chair, he steeples his fingers under his chin.

"So how are you feeling, Anthony?"

"Just peachy," Tony lies, sitting up straighter in the bed.

"I'm surprised after your ordeal that you would feel well. With the amount of ketamine present in your system, the doctors say you're lucky to be alive, let alone awake."

Tony's eyebrows jump. "Ketamine?"

Ducky nods. "The doctors were just as surprised to find it on your blood tests. Typically, it is not present on a standard drug panel. At my inquiry, they ran a specific test and the results were quite shocking. Its use in the United States is relatively limited."

Tony glances over at Abby. "Do you think you could track it?"

"If I had the time," she says, her frantic eyes jumping to the skeleton clock on her table. "And I don't know if I have enough."

Rubbing his temple, the ache returns to Tony's brain. "Okay, stick with the e-mails for now. But - "

"I already procured a sample," Ducky interjects, pulling a vial of blood from his shirt pocket.

Grinning broadly, Abby rushes across the room to scoop the tube from Ducky's hands. As soon as she reaches her desk again, it lands on her 'to-do' pile and she dives back into her trace.

Ducky turns his attention to Tony. "So how are you dealing with Timothy's disappearance, Anthony?"

But he ignores the question. "Did you finish the Mitchell autopsy, Ducky?"

Ducky sighs. "It was what we expected, I'm afraid. Zachery Mitchell committed suicide. However, there were curious contusions scattered all over his body. Most of them were still in the early stages of healing when he took his life. They couldn't have been more than a few days old."

"So he was in a fight?"

"Probably two, maybe three, days prior to his death. Based on the extent of internal damage, it was quite a severe one at that. But he had no defensive wounds on his hands or elsewhere on his body, so I don't believe he fought back."

Tony's brow furrows. "He just let someone beat the hell out of him?"

"It would appear so."

Ducky reaches into his briefcase to pull out his autopsy photos. The extent of Mitchell's injuries shocks Tony as he hadn't viewed the corpse outside the crime scene. How a former SEAL could let someone beat him within an inch of his life makes no sense.

Unless…

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Tony forces his muddled brain through the newest information.

A dead SEAL who was in a fight before he killed himself. Four guns-for-hire with military training who abducted two NCIS agents. A ghost's fingerprints at the scene of the abduction. A covert mission tied to Mitchell and four dead SEALs in Afghanistan.

He nods slowly, making the connections he couldn't earlier.

Operation Sunfire, as Abby explained to him earlier. Mitchell filed the report that listed the SEALs as killed in action. But, Tony realizes suddenly, they weren't dead, just missing - probably held captive by the Taliban. And so, they came home to exact their revenge on Mitchell.

His heart sinks at the thought of what they might to do to Tim.

"Hey, Abs, can you show me the picture of those guys who died during Sunfire?"

Her brow furrows when she checks with Ducky.

The doctor nods carefully. "If it could help, Timothy."

After a few clicks, she lugs the laptop over. One glance at the screen turns Tony's blood to ice. Four familiar faces, clad in their military uniforms against an American flag, stare back.

Dozer. Hobgoblin. Stanford. Maui.

"Those are the ones who took us." He jabs a finger at Dozer's image. "That one's the leader. He'd probably take Tim somewhere he knows."

"Matthew Cunningham," Abby says, glancing at the screen. "His fingerprints were on the casings we found at the scene."

With a whoop, Abby scuttles back to impromptu lab with her computer and newfound determination. All it takes is a few seconds of frantic typing before she throws her arms triumphantly over her head. While she does her victory dance, exhaustion hits Tony out of nowhere. He slumps back against the pillows, barely able to keep his eyes open.

"Tony, guess where he grew up," she chirps.

"Where, Abs?" he slurs.

"Ridley Park. You know where that is, right?"

"I can't - " his exhausted brain won't process the information " – remember."

"It's a neighborhood in Philly." She squints at him, obviously confused. "You used to work there. How do you not remember?"

"Yeah, I know…"

When the world starts to spin, he closes his eyes. He slumps against the pillow, letting himself slip away momentarily. Then he bolts upright, snapping awake.

"And you'll never guess what else," she continues, unfazed.

"Abigail," Ducky warns. "Remember his doctors warned about confusion and blackouts."

"Oh yeah, I forgot." Her lips pull into a pout. "I just got so excited that I think I might have found Timmy. And thought Tony would be too."

"What'd you find, Abs?" Tony manages.

"Cunningham's parents used to own a small motel in the area. So maybe that's where they took McGee…"

"Good work, Abs." Tony fights to keep his eyes open. "Call Gibbs, now."

"I will, but don't forget Steve has lead on your case."

The thought someone other than Gibbs searching for Tim almost makes Tony laugh. But he can't even manage a chuckle before the world slips away again.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Thursday, August 24, 2006 - 12:41am – St. Boniface Medical Center – Chevy Chase, MD –**

Something tugs on Tony's shoulder, soft at first. But when he reaches to bat it away, the yanking grows more incessant. It drags him from his comfortable dreams, back to the harsh reality of the hospital room. He tries to twist away, but there's nowhere to go in the tight bed.

"Are you awake, Junior?"

The sound of his father's voice grates on his frayed nerves, instantly putting Tony on edge. He blinks owlishly under the harsh fluorescent lights. Just at the edge of the bed, Senior stands rigidly, his concerned gaze locked on his only son.

Tony groans. "Dad, what are you doing here?"

"Trying to fix this."

"You can't fix this. Everything is already done and I don't need..." He presses his lips together, shakes his head. "I don't want you here. You need to – "

"They didn't find your friend," Senior interrupts.

Tony's mouth gapes. "What?"

"I overheard Abby and Dr. Mallard talking. They went to that hotel, but Agent McGee wasn't there. Abby got extremely upset, so Dr. Mallard took her for tea before she could wake you." Senior's gaze drops to the floor. "So I…"

"Decided to wake me up?"

Senior chuckles humorlessly. "Well, you are your mother's son, after all. She was never one to sit by idly, while others did the work. And I knew you'd want the chance to help your friend."

His father's eyes are earnest, like he's trying to prove something to Tony…and himself. As though, he can still be a good father after all those years of boarding schools and forgotten birthdays.

"I don't know when they'll be back," Senior continues. "So we should go now."

"We – " Tony's finger jumps between him and his father " - aren't going anywhere. You got me and McGee into this mess and I'm going to get us out."

Senior flinches like he's been shot. "I just thought I could help."

"You've done enough," Tony says, not bothering to look at his father.

With a defeated sigh, Senior places a set of scrubs and what might be galoshes on the bed. Just as he slinks out of the room, he pauses at the door and gives his son one last, long look.

"Tell Agent McGee, I'm sorry for everything."

"Apologizing is a sign of weakness, Dad. Never forget that."

After a tight nod, Senior slinks out of the room. Once he's alone, Tony fights with the bedrail until it slides out of his way. Then he slips out of the bed onto his unsteady legs. It takes a few tries, but he manages to pull on the scrubs. He pushes his feet into the boots, not surprised they're slightly too big. Since his father probably pinched them from a neighboring room, Tony decides not to complain. Hopefully, they won't be missed.

On his way out of the room, he pauses at the chair where Ducky left his jacket. He debates about taking it, certain that Ducky won't mind if it helps Tim. Even though it's way too small, Tony pulls it on anyway, figuring the disguise will help him sneak out of the hospital easier. Thankfully, the keys to Ducky's Morgan are in the front pocket.

Without a second though, Tony sneaks to the door. Sucking in a deep breath, he peers into the empty hallway. If any of the hospital staff catch him, he'll be under guard until he's ready for a general discharge. His vision swims and he sags against the wall, willing the spots to pass.

He doesn't have time for this. And neither does Tim.

Just as he slips into the hallway, he nearly barrels into Abby.

Standing there with her oversize CafPow, her mouth pulls into a tiny 'o' over her tear-stained eyes. She takes in his outfit - all the way down to the stolen galoshes – then nods slowly.

"You're going after McGee, aren't you?" she asks.

"Yeah, there's no way I'm leaving him out there."

Her face falls as a tear snakes down her cheek. "My lead was – "

"The best you could do with what you had."

Somehow, her frown deepens even further. "But it wasn't good enough."

"Yes, it was."

Tony pecks her cheek, feeling the trails of tears underneath his lips.

"I'll bring him back," he whispers. "I promise."

When Tony starts to sneak away, Abby drags him back into the room. They make it all the way to her makeshift lab before Tony manages to free himself from her remarkably strong grasp.

"Abs?"

She places the CafPow on her table, then digs to the bottom of her 'to-do' pile. Underneath the piles of paper and bits of evidence bags, there's a Sig Sauer nestles in a right-handed holster.

His eyes widen. "Why do you have a gun?"

"Steve left it. He figured you wouldn't wait around, so he thought you could use one." She forces a brave smile, then presses the weapon into Tony's hands. "The only condition is that whatever happens doesn't appear in the official report. You know how Steve doesn't care for Gibbs' methods."

"Or mine," Tony says, cracking a grin.

"Or yours." Abby leans into him, slips a cell phone into his jacket pocket. "I'll call you as soon as I get more information about the meeting. But you'd better go before Ducky gets back from the bathroom."

With a quick nod, Tony starts for the door. He pauses for a moment, turns back to her.

"McGee will be fine, Abs."

"I know. With you and Gibbs on the case, those bad guys better watch out." She tries to smile again, but it comes off as a grimace. "Just come home safe, okay?"

Tony flashes her a huge grin. "You bet, I will."

He peers into the hallway for anymore unexpected visitors. When he sees that it's empty, he gives Abby one last look, then darts out of the room. For the middle of the night, the hospital is surprisingly dead. The only person he sees is an overworked nurse, far too exhausted to notice him.

To play it safe, he takes the stairs to the parking garage. As soon as the door slams behind him, the hair on the pack of his neck rises. He yanks the gun from its holster and whips around. Staring down the barrel of the barrel of Tony's weapon is his father.

Senior visibly jumps, backpedaling with his hands raised.

"Dad! What the hell are you doing?"

"Coming with you," Senior offers.

"No, you're not."

Growling, Tony holsters the weapon and turns back to the parking lot. As he stalks across the garage, he hears his father's shoes reverberate on the concrete.

There's a grip on his arm. "But Junior, you're in no shape to drive. If what the doctors say is true…"

Tony whips around, wrests himself free. "Dad, that's enough. You've almost gotten me killed once this week. What do you think will happen if you follow me?"

Stopping dead, Senior drops his gaze to the ground. "Right now, I don't know. But after what's happened, I know your partner's life is more important to you than mine."

Tony lets the tension hang for a long moment. "And what are you going to do, Dad? Swindle one of those guys out of some cash? I mean, really, come on. There's nothing for you to do here."

"I could cause a distraction," Senior offers. "Or at the very least, drive you to where Agent Gibbs might be. The doctors said you blackout as a result of that drug. You can't get - "

"I'll be fine," Tony snaps. "I don't need you playing chauffeur."

_There's no way Dad's telling me the truth about blackouts. He's just playing me like he has my whole life._

Once he locates the Morgan on the far side of the building, he darts towards it. Despite the rebuffs, his father tails him anyway. When he reaches the vehicle, his fingers delve into the jacket pocket for the keys. He pulls them out, trying to ignore the tremble in his hands.

As Tony fumbles with the lock, his vision tunnels to a pinprick. He focuses on the side view mirror, breathing deliberately while he yanks the door open.

"Junior." When he doesn't stop, Senior tries again: "Anthony."

Tony ignores him, instead sliding into the car. Before he has a chance to lock the doors, Senior slides into the seat next to him. When Tony notices the steering wheel isn't in front of him, he mutters a curse. Of course, Ducky imported a right-handed drive car.

Senior holds his hand out, like Tony might actually give him the keys.

"Not a chance in hell, Dad."

Reaching over, Senior manages to wrangle the keys out of his son's hands. Tony wants to fight back, but he doesn't have any left. The escape from the hospital room left him exhausted and winded. He leans back against the seat, counting the spots that collect in his vision.

Darkness flirts with him and he tries to ignore it. He needs to get his father out of the driver's seat so he can drive himself to Philadelphia. But he has no energy left; he has nothing left.

"Sleep, Anthony, I'll get you there."

It's that voice from a lifetime ago as soft and loving as the touch on his arm. The one from his childhood before his mother died and his life turned upside down.

For a fleeting moment, he believes he's safe in his father's presence.

_Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Dad can get me to McGee._

Just as he starts to pass out, he hears the roar of the Morgan's engine. But even the screaming gears can't wake him when darkness drags him away again.


	12. Chapter 12

**12:46am - The Pentagon, Washington, DC – Office of Rear Admiral John (No Middle Initial) McGee – Concurrent with Tony DiNozzo's Road Trip –**

"Are you sure about this?" Kenji asks quietly.

Gibbs' eyes snap from the exhausted agent's face back to the computer screen. His bank account information flashes, waiting for the transfer order. Cracking his neck, Gibbs stares at the amount he amassed over the years. While it isn't a sizable, it's enough to afford him a comfortable life.

Or just enough to bring his former agent home when his own father fell short.

"Sir?" Kenji's finger hovers over the mouse. "Do you want to do this? I'm not convinced I'll be able to retrieve it."

Sighing, Gibbs closes his eyes for a moment.

_Whatever it takes to save my agents._

With a dismissive wave, Gibbs steps away from the admiral's desk. Even though he's ready to pay a portion of the ransom, he can't stand there and watch his life savings vanish.

Kenji's face perks up, panicked. "What does that mean?"

Gibbs looks back. "Transfer the money."

"Are you – "

"Just do it, Suzuki!"

He gives a half-nod, then dips behind the computer screen. The click is so quiet Gibbs barely hears it, but it makes him flinch. Crossing his arms, he feels an almost fleeting connection to John. Sacrificing everything he worked for in life to bring someone he cares about home. He never thought he'd be in this position after Shannon and Kelly died, but his surrogate family is a family all the same.

Gibbs shifts his weight, lets his gaze roam over the office. As he takes in John's possessions, he tries to figure out how a man so rigid could raise someone like Tim. But then, he hadn't expected the man who strolled off the elevator at NCIS to be DiNozzo's dad. Two completely different beginnings yielded him one of the best agents he ever trained and another one well on his way.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Gibbs pauses at a childhood picture of Tim with his sister. Gap-toothed and gangly, the siblings are a mash of limbs as they grin for the camera. Gibbs presses his finger against the glass, rubbing the dust away from the girl's face. He smiles at the image, remembering how many hours he spent staring at similar pictures of his daughter.

_I wonder who Kelly would have become, if she had the chance._

But he doesn't have the opportunity to go through the possibilities like he does on sleepless nights.

The door to the office groans and John steps inside. His dress whites are gone, replaced by a blue button down and jeans. In one hand, he holds a container with three coffees. Several clothes are draped over his other arm. Anxiety settles over his face as he heads to the desk.

"Any news?" he asks, setting the coffees down.

Shaking his head, Kenji reaches for a drink. "Not yet, but we managed to get the rest of the money together, sir." He glances at Gibbs, flinches and puts the cup down. "Other sir."

John's brow furrows. "I don't understand. I thought you were going to…"

When he waves for an explanation, Kenji sighs like no one ever listens to him. Under the tense stares of the older men, he spins the computer around and taps his finger on the screen.

"I could spoof the cash," he explains, "but Agent Gibbs thought it would be too big of a risk. It wouldn't be long before the bank on the other end realizes it's fake. So we'd have a minute, maybe two, to transfer the fake money and rescue Agent McGee. Since it's real now, I can trace it if they get away."

Gibbs emits an actual growl. "They're not going to."

"If – " Kenji holds his hands up " - I only said, if."

With a distracted nod, John glances at the computer screen. The new amount in his account makes eyes grow wide. His mouth gapes for a long moment before he manages to compose himself.

"Where did the rest of come from?"

Kenji starts, "Actually, it was – "

"The NCIS discretionary fund," Gibbs interrupts.

Kenji blinks, clearly confused, but plays along when Gibbs glares him down.

"Yeah, discretionary fund," he parrots. "You know, for terrorists and weapons deals and…and…"

"Ransoms." John nods slowly. "Give NCIS my gratitude, Gibbs. I'll pay them back."

Gibbs doesn't reply. Instead, he grabs one of the coffees and takes a swig. As soon as the bitter liquid washes over his tongue, he gags violently.

"Good to know the Pentagon don't have better coffee than NCIS," he says.

John smiles sympathetically. "Government contracts. It's the same everywhere."

Gibbs steels himself for another swig. "Same shit everywhere."

"Actually," Kenji interjects, drinking his own, "I think it's pretty good. Really smooth finish and…"

When Gibbs snatches the coffee from his hand, Kenji gets the hint. He turns the computer back around, ready to start again. While he pecks half-heartedly at the keyboard, Gibbs gestures to the clothes hung over John's arm.

"What'd you bring those for?"

"I figured you two might like to change."

Kenji glances over to the men. "That would be great. I could use – " Gibbs skewers the agent with a glare, making him drops his eyes back to his work. "You know what, I'm great with what I'm wearing. Really comfortable, thanks though, other sir."

Sighing, John lays the clothes onto his visitor's chair. He wrings his hands, staring at Gibbs out of the corner of his eye. Fear glides over his features - full blown, but fleeting.

"Gibbs?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

John checks on Kenji, then lowers his voice. "What if this doesn't work?"

"It's going to," he replies resolutely.

"But – "

"We'll get McGee back safe. And if not - " Gibbs shoots him a sideways glance " - your man should be able to finish the job."

When John clenches his jaw, the conversation is clearly over. Only Kenji's frenetic typing breaks the tense silence. The minutes tick by, creeping later into the night and closer to the deadline. Eventually, impatience gets the better of Gibbs and he swivels back to Kenji. If they don't make a move soon, they won't get to Philadelphia in time.

Delays might just get Tim killed…

"You got something yet, Suzuki?"

"Uh – " Kenji clears his throat, his cheeks going pale " – not yet. Steve and Eloise are gathering intel on the Naval Yard before they head out. It's been abandoned for years so they're trying to get blue prints for it. They'll be leaving shortly to scout the location. I'm trying to trace the account where Admiral McGee sent the first payment. But it isn't progressing like I thought."

Gibbs makes a face. "Then scratch it and we'll head out."

"Now?" Kenji checks his watch. "We still have six hours to locate Agent McGee."

"It's a two hour drive to Philly." When Kenji stares at him blankly, he adds: "We need to set-up and rendez-vous with Barrows and Davenport."

"For what?"

His actual growl makes Kenji flinch visibly. But when the agent doesn't say anything, Gibbs crosses the room to give him a head slap. With his eyes growing wide, Kenji rubs the back of his head in disbelief. He glances to John for support, but the man just looks away.

"Don't you remember the plan, Suzuki?"

"Of course sir, we meet with the kidnappers and exchange the money via my laptop."

Gibbs pinches the bridge of his nose. "Right, but we need to know what we're walking into."

Kenji purses his lips, nods. "Ah, okay. That makes sense."

Hopping to his feet, the agent begins to gather his equipment. He starts to scoop up the laptop, but something on the screen grabs his attention. He stops dead and sinks back into his chair. With his eyes fixed on the screen, he blatantly ignores Gibbs' annoyed stare.

John swallows hard. "What is it, Agent Suzuki?"

"Another e-mail from the abductors," Kenji whispers, almost to the laptop. "Reminder of the meet with a proof of life." He gives a quick tap on the keyboard. "I can start a trace right – "

"Sent it to Abby," Gibbs orders. "We're leaving."

"But I can do this."

When Gibbs levels his glare at the young agent, Kenji's voice dies in his throat. He pushes to his feet, straightens his back as he struggles to keep his resolve. When Gibbs takes a step towards him, he closes his eyes, obviously searching for courage.

"With all due respect, sir," he says, a quiver in his voice, "I can trace the source of the e-mail just as well as Abby. I just need some time."

"You don't have it, Suzuki. If you keep screwing around, McGee is going to die."

Kenji clenches his jaw and glances to the floor as John storms out of the room. Without any more protests, Kenji drops into his chair to forward the e-mail to Abby. But as Gibbs approaches, Kenji peers over the laptop like he's about to be mauled.

"I'm sending it to Abby, sir, I swear."

Gibbs ignores him. "Whaddya got?"

"Just an image similar to the video we received earlier."

With a couple of clicks, Kenji loads the attachment. There's no video this time, just a single picture. Gibbs holds his breath as he takes in the image of an unconscious Tim on the same bedspread as before. The only difference is the television screen in the background shows a famous late night host.

"It looks like Agent McGee was still alive as of midnight," Kenji reports. "Other than that, there's nothing new. Kidnappers confirm the meet time and say they'll give us directions to the spot when we get there." He sighs, makes a few clicks. "Maybe Abby will have better luck than me."

"You can work on it in the car."

"How?"

Gibbs hands Kenji a cell. "Use this."

The agent's brow furrows like he isn't sure what to do with the newest piece of equipment. Eventually, he nods carefully and slides the phone into his pocket.

"Thanks, sir. I'll see what I can do."

Gibbs bobs his head. "You get anything on the bank trace?"

"I come up empty on the kidnappers' account like Abby did, sir. But remember the fifty thousand dollars Admiral McGee paid out first?" Without giving Gibbs a chance to react, Kenji smiles triumphantly. "That money was easy to follow. It ended up going to an account in the Caymans."

"Any idea who it belongs to?"

Kenji gives a one-shouldered shrug. "I don't know. I'm assuming it's the same person Admiral McGee hired to recover his son. I was able to reconstruct deleted correspondence on Admiral McGee's computer and the other person only refers to himself as, 'M'. But whoever he is, he's pretty scary."

Gibbs' eyebrows jump. "How so?"

"The last e-mail from 'M' says, 'Do not fear. Your son will return, regardless of the costs.'"

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**2:14am – Philadelphia Naval Yard – Philadelphia, Pa. –**

The steady flashlight beam cuts through the pitch-dark night, casting an eerie glow over grimy asphalt. On the overpass high overhead, Ziva hears the din of traffic in a city not yet asleep. But it is a world away from the abandoned Navy Yard. Here, her only companions are the calm breeze rolling off the ocean and the assault rifle tight in her grasp.

Malachi slipped away as soon as they arrived, claiming they could cover more ground alone. As she slinks along her chosen path, she has come to agree with him. There is too much ground to cover together. In fact, it will be a feat for them individually.

_I hope we find what we are searching for soon._

She guides her flashlight left, then right. Every inch is the same: rusted tankers, decaying equipment and storage trailers. Lots and lots of storage trailers.

She pulls a deep breath, catching the day's heat still lingering in the air. The sweat pricks to her brow and she wipes it away, then pushes deeper into the Navy Yard. Just as she clears another section, a patch of color catches her eye.

Bright green.

Different than the rust and weathered blues, it is completely out of place here.

Holding it in her flashlight beam as though it might disappear, she creeps closer. When she reaches it, she crouches to run her fingers over the ground. It is rough and bumpy under her touch.

_They have marked their preferred location with duct tape._

Her eyes jump to the sky. This place seems no different than any other in the industrial wasteland.

Why would Tim's abductors chose this spot for the exchange?

On her second survey, she notices it. Lone and desolate, the blackened figure nearly blends into the cloudless sky. It is the only thing every previous location lacked: an old crane with a bird's eye view.

_That is the first spot I have seen suitable for a sniper._

Pressing her lips together, she pulls out her cell phone. Malachi answers on the first ring.

"I have found something," she whispers.

"Then I am on my way."

When the line goes dead, Ziva examines the location further. Two lines of storage containers are on either side, creating a tight walkway. The spot is easily accessible from both directions, but there are also openings between the containers large enough for a man to squeeze through.

This is not the type of place she would choose for an exchange.

She drums her fingers on her rifle, trying to figure out why the abductors chose this place. Other than the sniper's perch, why would they choose this place?

It is in the dead center of the Naval Yard with –

she makes a face –

numerous opportunities for escape. If their mission does not go as planned, the abductors could take any number of possible routes. Even with Malachi's help, they cannot block every exit.

She swears in Hebrew, slams her fist against a container.

Not even NCIS would be able to stop them in this place.

Moments later, the heavy thud of boots approaches. She deftly swings her rifle up, but lowers it at the sight of Malachi. Smirking slightly, he steps into the center of the passage. His flashlight rakes through the night, catching bits of dust and naval flotsam as it goes.

"This is not good," he surmises.

"I am aware. What shall we do?"

"We do what they do," he replies as though it explains everything.

Her brow furrows as she glances at him. "I do not understand."

"They plan to use a sniper, yes?"

When he points to the crane, she nods. Her eyes follow his finger towards a slightly shorter observation deck on the opposite side of the passageway. While its placement is not perfect, it is a decent spot for a sniper. But the cage is open, leaving them exposed to return fire.

"If they will use one," he says, his lips curving into a wicked smile, "we shall too. We will, as the Americans say, 'beat them until they are tame.' "

Ziva frowns. "I believe the saying includes blame."

Malachi waves his hand contemptuously. "Perhaps you are correct, Ziva. Perhaps not, but it does not matter now. We have work to do to recover McGee."

"And the kidnappers?"

He looks over, taken aback. "I thought you understood. They do not deserve to walk away from this." When she doesn't reply, he waves her forward. "Come, we have little time to ready ourselves."

But she doesn't follow right away.

Instead, she watches the night swallow Malachi's black-clad body. She lingers for a moment, straining her ears to catch the noises of the city. These are the sounds - the life - she will leave behind when this job is complete. After all those years she worked in the shadows, she thought she was finished.

_But that is not the case._

She draws her assault rifle to her chest, follows after Malachi.

_It is for the best. I am not meant for that life anyway._

__-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_ _

**5:18am – Somewhere Outside Philadelphia, Pa. –**

Something jostles Tim's shoulder and he shifts away. Just as he manages to get comfortable again, the touch grows more incessant. He struggles to crack his eyelids. When he finds Hobgoblin inches from his face, Tim recoils violently

"Whoa, easy," Hobgoblin says, grabbing Tim's shoulder. "Just calm down."

As he takes a deep breath, the pound in Tim's head starts again. Groaning, he slumps back against the bed. When he lands on his bound hands, his muscles scream, but he doesn't have the energy to move.

He just lies there, squinting through the darkness at Hobgoblin.

"It's time to go, Agent McGee."

"Go?" Tim croaks. "Go where?"

A pained smile glides over Hobgoblin's lips. "Home. This is almost over."

When Hobgoblin pulls Tim to his feet, he doesn't fight. Even if he wanted to, he just doesn't have the strength. He leans against Hobgoblin, his legs barely able to hold his weight. His head lolls forward, but he manages to jerk it up for a view of the room.

It's surprisingly empty. All of the computer equipment is missing – probably already packed up – and the furniture looks cleaner than before. As soon as they step away, Maui strips the bed clothes into a trash bag.

_They're getting rid of any evidence. That's smart. Really smart.  
_

When Tim's knees give out, another strong set of hands catches his arm before he hits the ground.

"For Christ's sake, he can't walk," Dozer growls.

Tim decides now isn't the time to defend himself. Instead, he lets them drag him out of the hotel room. Despite the early hour, the air is still sweltering. He tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs won't cooperate in the heat. Sweat cascades down his back and he tries to glance around the parking lot. But there's nothing to see as they hustle him into the back of the waiting van.

As soon as his body lands on the cold metal, Tim sighs with relief. He struggles to stay alert as his captors hop in and slam the doors.

He tells – begs – himself to pay attention to the route so he'll be able to retrace their steps later.

_Awake. I need to stay awake._

He jerks his eyelids open, breathes hard. Overhead, Dozer and Hobgoblin share a muted conversation he can't make out, but it almost sounds like they're arguing. The van bounces onto the road, hangs a right. Tim forces himself to count the time between turns, just like Tony and Gibbs taught him. With every passing moment, his eyes grow heavier.

_…twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. Red light._

He blinks owlishly, desperate to wake up again.

_Don't fall asleep, Tim. Don't fall asleep. Please don't –_


	13. Chapter 13

**6:33am – Somewhere in the Southern Portion of the Philadelphia Naval Yard – Philadelphia, Pa. –**

Kenji clears his throat. "Uh, sir?"

"Yes, this is the right way," Gibbs snaps. "Stop asking."

Even though Gibbs isn't entirely sure, he sure as hell won't tell John or Kenji. While Tim's abductors left a map for them at the southern edge of the Yard, he's starting to suspect it doesn't lead anywhere. The chaotic scribbles on the paper look nothing like the stark, concrete buildings lining their path.

The trio makes turn after turn, desperately searching for the shipping container with a goat – or is that scrawl supposed to be a cow? – on the side of it. Somewhere near there, the meet to exchange Tim's life for his father's savings will take place. But they haven't seen a single shipping container, let alone anything resembling a barnyard animal since they abandoned the car over an hour ago.

Gibbs prays this adventure in getting lost is part of the abductors' plan to escape unnoticed. Because if they're being sent on a mission to nowhere, then -

_No, not an option. We're bringing McGee home._

Pressing his lips together, Gibbs hazards a glance at Tim's father. Face slick with sweat and breathing heavy, John wears an expression like a condemned man. His eyes are set off in the distance, his back ram-rod straight. He clutches his laptop bag to his chest as though it could save him.

When John turns his head towards Gibbs, the former agent flicks his gaze away and presses onward. John's robotic footsteps and Kenji's anxious pacing echo behind him as they continue through the building complex. The heat wafts off the asphalt, giving the air a hazy, shimmering quality. Loosening his collar, Gibbs sweeps the sweat from the back of his neck.

_The damned sun's not even up. How is it so hot?_

As the minutes creep closer to the meeting time, the rescue party finally arrives at the edge of a shipping container graveyard. Gibbs sighs at the sight and the significant drop in temperature.

_So they didn't mean for us to get lost. Those SEALs just can't draw for shit. Thank G-d._

Kenji clears his throat again. "Uh, sir?"

"I wasn't lying, Suzuki. This is still the right way."

"No, I didn't mean that. I just – " the agent laughs nervously and gestures at Gibbs " – well, you took my gun. Don't I, uh – need it? To help Agent McGee?"

"You got your back-up?"

Kenji half-nods. "In my ankle holster."

"Then you're set." When Kenji doesn't look convinced, Gibbs makes a face. "You remember the plan, don't you?"

Shifting his weight, Kenji glances at the laptop in John's hands. "I'm supposed to be Admiral McGee's accountant and you're the security detail. When I send the money to their account, I'll attach the tracking packet so Abby can find them later. As soon as we know the meeting's location, I'm to contact Steve and Eloise so they can set up a perimeter. Did I miss anything?"

Gibbs glares him down. "How about recovering McGee alive?"

When Kenji drops his gaze to the ground, John lets out a broken moan. Somehow, the last remaining color drains from his cheeks, leaving him even paler than before. But they don't have the time to deal with it. Instead, Gibbs jerks his head and leads the trio into the shipping container maze.

Thankfully, the map turns out to be much better for this portion of the journey. After only a few turns, they stumble into a small break in the containers. If the map is correct, this should be the place.

Gibbs' hand instinctively moves to the Sig on his hip. He motions for John and Kenji to stay put while he clears the area. Even though he could use the agent on his six, the last thing he needs is for their cover to be blown before the operation even starts. Rolling onto the balls of his feet, he sneaks quickly through the clearing to check the recesses between the containers.

"Clear!" he calls

"Gibbs! You need to come see this!" Kenji yells.

Gibbs' gut roils in his stomach as he closes the distance between them. His heart pounds in his chest when he reaches Kenji's side.

But instead of Tim's captors, he finds himself eye-to-eye with a cartooned sheep. Pressing his lips together, he yanks the map out of his back pocket. Of course, the sheep doesn't look anything like the cow-goat scrawled on the paper. But since when are SEALs expected to be artists?

Gibbs turns in a tight circle, quickly surveying the area.

Sure, it's small enough for an intimate meeting, but big enough they couldn't just grab Tim and run. Three openings on every side give unlimited opportunities for escape. The two cranes at the east and west ends are the perfect snipers' nests. Not to mention that faint scent of ocean air, just underneath the reek of rust and rancid oil.

_We're close enough to the water for them to ditch the bodies, if the meet goes to hell._

Kenji inhales sharply. "Could this be the spot?"

Nodding, Gibbs crouches to inspect a piece of lime green duct tape. "This has to be it."

"So now what?"

"Contact Barrows and Davenport. Tell them not to approach until McGee's safe."

"Yes, sir." When Kenji checks his cell phone, his lips press into a tight line. "Uh, sir, I don't have any reception. We're completely dark."

John's eyes widen. "What does that mean?"

"We don't have back-up, other sir."

Gibbs nods. "Then this is definitely the right spot."

Kenji bites his lower lip as he holds his cell higher. "I'm going to see if I can find reception somewhere. I think we really need Steve and Eloise."

When Gibbs glances up, he meets the agent's resolute features. Eventually, he sighs quietly. "Just stay in my sight, Suzuki."

John's eyebrows rise, but he doesn't say a word. He just rakes his eyes around the clearing as though he might catch something Gibbs missed.

After a clipped nod, Kenji slowly wanders around the clearing with his cell phone to search for a signal. Gibbs turns his attention back to the lime green duct table, running his fingers over the corrugated edge. The color is bright and vibrant – probably new - , but one small portion is covered with a touch of grease. Based on the shape, it might be part of a boot-print.

Gibbs sinks back on his haunches, glances up at the snipers' perches.

_What if someone already beat us here?_

His gut clenches as John slides into his vision. Wringing his hands and pacing anxiously, the admiral no longer resembles the man who merely hours ago was so sure of this mission's success. Gibbs instantly recognizes that wild look in his eyes: he is on the brink of losing everything.

"Gibbs, do you think this will work?" John asks suddenly.

"Yeah, we'll get McGee back."

Nodding unconvincingly, the admiral tightens his grip on the laptop bag. "But what if we don't? What happens if - "

"That's not gonna happen," Gibbs shoots back. "But if you want to make sure this goes safely, I need to know everything that's going on. Is the person you hired be here?"

John's mouth gapes as he holds the former agent's glare. The moments pass as the defiance ebbs away from his face, slowly giving way to resignation. Licking his lips, his eyes go wide and he shrugs. "I don't know. He hasn't made contact for several hours."

Grinding his teeth, Gibbs rises to his feet. "What kind of contact was it? Phone? E-mail? Pager?"

John's brow furrows at the last option, but he ignores it. "E-mail. He said he was on his way up here because he had a lead. And…"

"And what?"

"That he'd bring Timothy home, no matter what."

Gibbs blinks, taken aback. "That's it?"

When John offers a half-nod, Gibbs grinds his teeth hard enough to feel his jaw crack. He breaks their gaze to check on Kenji. Both men watch the agent fumble around like a lunatic. He mutters to himself, shaking his phone as though it might help the device pick up a rogue signal.

"You know, it was never supposed to get this far," John whispers. "Timothy was supposed to be home by now."

Just as Gibbs starts to respond, Kenji's head snaps up. His body goes rigid at the sight of something down the corridor closest to him. As he raises his hands, the cell phone slips from his grasp, shattering against the ground. When he backpedals into the side of the nearest container, Gibbs' hand jumps to the Sig.

Two men rush into the clearing with raised assault rifles. One finds its mark at Kenji's chest, further flattening him against the shipping crate. The other bounces between Gibbs and John as a short, red-haired man approaches them.

Neither John nor Gibbs break their stance; in fact, it only reignites the admiral's rage. His jaw works like a spring when he stares down the barrel of the gun.

"Hands up, both of you." The man with the gun waits for them to comply, then aims his weapon directly at John's head. "You said you would come alone, Admiral McGee. Those were the terms."

John's eyes narrow. "Pardon me from not trusting the people who abducted my son."

"Who are these people?"

"Private security and - " John gestures at Gibbs, then Kenji "- my accountant."

The gun inches closer to John's heart. "Get rid of them now!"

"My accountant's the only one who can access the money. Some sort of tax bullshit and – " he shoots Gibbs a side-long glance " - I won't stay without a security guard. What's stopping you from shooting me and my son after I pay you?"

"My word." When John chuckles humorlessly, the man continues quickly: "We're here to make an exchange, nothing more."

"Then let's get it over with. You have your team and I have mine." John squares his shoulders. "Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."

As soon as John says the words, his entire body goes rigid like he expects a bullet. Even Gibbs holds his breath, knowing he might not walk away from this either. His muscles twitch, ready for the Sig should he need it. His mind carefully calculates how to hit the man in front of them and the one guarding Kenji without getting any of them killed. Even though it's suicide, he'll stand his ground.

The tense silence hangs, begging them to start a fire fight.

"Dozer?" the man by Kenji calls. "Orders?"

"Stand down, Maui." Dozer relaxes in his stance. "We accept the terms, Admiral McGee."

Nodding, Maui lets his assault rifle dip towards the ground. As Dozer copies the action, he whistles loudly. Seconds later, a tall, blonde man drags a bound figure into the clearing at gun-point. When they stop, the figure struggles to raise his head. It doesn't matter that he's barely conscious and unable to stand up on his own.

None of it matters, because Tim McGee is still alive.

Gibbs' heart skips a beat.

_Oh thank G-d._

"Timothy!" John starts to rush over, but Dozer raises his rifle to tell him they're close enough.

"Dad, I never thought you'd come." Tim's head dips to his chest, then snaps back up. "Is that Gibbs here too?"

"We're both here, McGee!" Gibbs calls. "Are you okay?"

Tim's brow furrows, his confusion deepening. "I'm fine, but you both came? Together? How? I always thought you two would kill each other if you ever met. Or the world would implode. Or explode. Or..." His voice trails off as his head lolls forward and he goes slack in his captor's grasp.

John turns his accusing glare on Dozer. "What did you do to him?"

"Just a mild sedative to keep him calm. Don't worry, it'll wear off in a few hours." He simply shrugs. "Now, should we get to business?"

John nods. "As soon as you release my accountant, he'll transfer the money."

"Transfer the money?" Dozer's features twist in anger. "It was supposed to be cash on delivery, Admiral. That was the arrangement."

"I had to make a new arrangement."

When Dozer raises his hand to send the signal to shoot Tim, John's mouth gapes and Gibbs steps forward. The assault rifle lines up with his forehead, but he doesn't even blink. Instead, he defiantly holds Dozer's steady gaze, almost challenging the man to pull the trigger.

Perking up his captor's grasp, Tim watches the confrontation with rapt interest.

"You ever try to take half a million out of an ATM?" Gibbs asks.

Dozer makes a show of thinking about it. "Um, no. But it's - "

"Well, it isn't easy. So if you want to get paid, it's going to be electronic. Or you'll get nothing. Let him – " Gibbs jabs his finger towards a wide-eyed Kenji " – get you your money so we can all go home."

Not moving the gun from Gibbs' head, Dozer waves his stabilizing hand at Maui. As soon as the mercenary moves out of the way, Kenji bolts from his spot against the shipping crate. He straightens his collar and wipes the sweat from his forehead. Carefully slipping around Gibbs and Dozer, he takes the laptop bag from John's outstretched hand. He sinks to the ground, boots the computer.

He loads a bank screen, then looks up at Dozer. "I just need your account number."

Face pinched in irritation, Dozer draws the weapon away from Gibbs. He crouches next to Kenji, then slams his fingers against the keyboard several times. One click from Kenji makes Gibbs' heart sink.

_There's no reason to keep us alive now._

Pushing to his feet, Dozer tips his hand towards John. "Nice doing business with you, Admiral McGee."

John steps forward, narrowing his eyes at the way Tim's captor holds him up. "And what about my son?"

"Let Agent McGee go," Dozer orders, turning to his team, "then we move out."

Just as the man holding Tim releases him, the agent's knees buckle and he pitches forward. Both the man and Dozer diver to catch him before he face-plants on the ground.

At the same moment, a gunshot cracks through the silence.

_Shit. Those bastards did bring a sniper.  
_

Instinctively, Gibbs unholsters his gun and whips it between the two cranes. On the western facing one, he catches the outline of two figures moving . He takes careful aim, then fires a warning shot. They respond with one of their own that buries itself in the container by Dozer's head.

Then another shot erupts the asphalt around John's feet.

Gibbs closes his eyes, listening to the second shot's reverb.

_Different gun. Son of a bitch, there's two of them._

He rotates in his stance to check the eastern perch, but can't see against the hazy sunlight. For good measure, he takes a shot in the general direction of the that crane.

Then all hell breaks loose.

The admiral darts towards Tim and his captors, but the hail of gunfire sends him diving back under the cover of a storage container. Gibbs returns it the best he can towards the eastern perch. Even Kenji tries to lay down cover-fire with his back-up revolver, but John can't make the rush to get his son.

Pinned down, they helplessly watch Tim's captors hustle him out of the clearing.

When the gunfire stops suddenly, Gibbs inhales for the first time in minutes. The silence is eerie, too quiet. Like the calm he would experience on the beaches in Mexico right before the hurricanes ripped them apart.

John shakes, looks over with wide eyes. "What do we do? What about Timothy?"

"We go after them." Gibbs tightens the grip on his Sig, glances to Kenji. "You up for this, Suzuki?"

The agent nods tightly, not trusting himself to speak. When Gibbs slides closer to the edge of their hiding spot, another shot sends him scrambling back. He slams his fist against the ground, checks on the trajectory to the eastern crane. From his position, he can't see anything.

Not that matters. Even if he had a clear shot, his and Kenji's weapons are useless at this distance.

Kenji sets into a runner's stance, ready to follow Gibbs through the firing squad. Pressing his lips together, Gibbs grimaces at himself. Not only has his mission gone to hell, but he's asking an agent to possibly sacrifice himself to save his former subordinate.

_Not fair to ask that of Suzuki._

Keeping his eyes fixed on the eastern perch, he slides to the edge of their hiding spot.

"Change of plans, Suzuki. I'm going alone."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**7:11am – Somewhere in the Northern Part of The Philadelphia Naval Yard – Philadelphia, Pa. –**

Opera. Why does it always have to be opera?

When the tenor's tremolo warbles out of the speakers of Ducky's Morgan, Tony grouses at his reflection in the window. His eyes rake at the passing buildings - once white now grey from soot and smog - and the rusting skeletons of tankers left to rot on the Schuylkill River.

_Nothing's changed since I used to patrol this place with Keates._

His eyes glance to his current partner.

Settled in the driver's seat, his father looks even older in the early morning sun. Deep bags stretch down his face, but he keeps his astute eyes on the road ahead. His hands move around the Morgan's controls with like he finally learned what he's doing. But when Senior goes to change gear, he hits the wrong lever and three sets of wiper blades shimmy across the windshield.

He mutters a curse. "What the hell? This car has three sets of windshield wipers?"

Tony doesn't answer, just focuses his attention on the world outside. He swallows hard, trying to force his heart out of his throat. It's been lodged there ever since he learned Tim was still missing. Even the truck stop breakfast he scarfed at his father's insistence couldn't make it budge from its new home.

_Everything will be better as soon as we find Tim. I know it will be._

He lied to himself every leg of the journey, repeating the mantra until he became as natural as breathing. But the longer he and his father wander aimlessly around the Yard, the harder it gets for him to believe they'll ever find Tim.

_I forgot just how big this place was._

Tony slumps back against the seat with a defeated sigh.

"Are you okay, Junior?" his father asks.

Tony's lips twitch into a humorless smile. "That's a joke right, Dad?"

"No, not really." Senior drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "You haven't told me how you were feeling since…well, you haven't really told me since you were a kid."

"Because you stopped asking after Mom died."

Flinching, Senior reaches to turn down the radio. Unfortunately, the volume is stuck on high since he jammed the controls somewhere on 95 to drown out the grinding of the Morgan's gears. An alto harmonizes with the tenor, both of them wailing enough to make Tony's eyelid twitch.

"You have no idea what I went through after your mother died, Junior."

"How do you think I felt? I lost both my parents that day." Senior slams on the brakes and Tony flies forward, almost bashing his head into the dashboard. "What the hell, Dad?"

Senior points his shaking finger. "Look."

Squinting against the glare on the windshield, Tony makes out four figures in the distance. Two hold huge rifles and one lags further behind, dragging a bent form. Tony's heart finally drops from his throat straight into his stomach. Bile creeps up into its place.

"Oh my G-d," Senior whispers. "Is that what happened to you, Junior?"

Nodding tightly, Tony scoops his Sig off the ground. When he starts to climb out of the car, Senior grabs his upper arm and squeezes until it hurts.

"Junior, I'm so sorry." He swallows hard. "I had no idea that - "

Tony shakes himself free. "Dad, I can't do this right now. I need to go get my partner before things get any worse. Just stay in the car, okay?"

Senior blinks, taken aback. "Don't you need back-up?"

Tony throws his hands up. "I am the back-up. The best thing you can do is stay put and shut up, got it?"

"Got it," his father parrots, slumping back into his seat.

The air outside of the car sucks Tony's breath away, nearly suffocating him. Heat attacks at every angle, from the sun high overhead to the asphalt baking under his boots. Raising the Sig, he slinks towards the trio who hold Tim. As he closes in, Tony recognizes the van next to them from his own abduction. He swallows hard, tries to push the ordeal out of his mind.

Instead, he focuses on Tim's wobbling stance and closed eyes.

_I bet they drugged him with whatever they gave me. What did the doctor say it was again?_

As Tony creeps closer, he counts three of his captors. Dozer, Maui, and Hobgoblin. Just as he starts to wonder where Stanford is, the far-off crack of a sniper shot echoes. His stomach burns.

_Oh shit, I bet they're taking out Gibbs and McGee's dad._

Tony's pulse kicks up, making his head pound and black spots swarm in his vision. Swallowing hard, he sets his stance and raises his gun at Hobgoblin's head. If Gibbs and his partner's father are ready to lay down their lives to bring Tim home, he sure as hell is too.

He clears his throat and four people whip around to meet him.

Dozer's eyes go wide. "Agent DiNozzo? How the hell did you get here?"

"In a car," Tony shoots back.

Even though Hobgoblin jerks his gun up against Tim's jaw, a lazy smile spreads over his partner's face. Like everything's going to be okay now that Tony's here.

Tony takes a tentative step forward, rechecking his aim through his blurry vision. He's pretty sure it's lined up with Hobgoblin's hairline. Maybe. At least, he hopes. Then he notices the two assault rifles pointed at him, one at his heart and the other at his head. Two perfect killshots.

"Why are you here?" Dozer asks, finger hovering on the trigger.

Tony squares his shoulder. "I came for my partner."


	14. Chapter 14

**7:23am – The Philadelphia Naval Yard – Philadelphia, Pa. –**

"Drop the gun, Agent DiNozzo," Dozer orders.

Tony grits his teeth. "Or what?"

Dozer's head dips towards Tim and Hobgoblin. "Or Hob'll put in Agent McGee."

Holding his breath, Tony licks the lines of sweat from his upper lip. The pounding in his head chooses this moment to kick-up like a jackhammer. The heat, the rifles poised to rip through his vital organs, Tim with a gun to his head. It's too much for Tony to deal with right now.

His vision greys as he takes an unsteady step forward. The last bits of consciousness start to slip away.

_I just need to hold out until Gibbs gets here._

_He's coming. He has to be._

There's another crack of a sniper shot, closer this time. Dozer's eyes shift to a nearby passage like he expects someone to come from there at any minute. Tony swallows hard, realizing how dire his and Tim's predicament is. Once Stanford regroups with his team, they're as good as dead.

"Get ready to move out," Dozer says.

When Maui's weapon tips towards the ground, Tony almost sighs with relief. One less rifle pointed at him might be cause for celebration, but he'd feel a hell of a lot better if Dozer dropped his too. But when Maui sprints to the driver's seat of the van, Tony's heart plummets.

_Why didn't they let McGee go? Something isn't right._

He takes another step forward, double-checking that his aim is still on Hobgoblin's forehead. The mercenary's eyes widen, but he jams the gun harder against Tim's neck to show they're serious.

"I'm not here for you!" Tony yells over the approaching gunfire. "I already told you I'm only here for McGee!"

Dozer's grip tightens on his weapon. "And us?"

Sucking in a deep breath, Tony grimaces. Dozer's smart enough to realize Tony will try to take a shot at them as soon as Tim is safe. Try to be that bad-ass NCIS agent he always pictured himself to be. Save his partner, arrest the dirtbags, and then head home for a nice glass of gin.

_That's how Bond would do it, but there'd be a girl involved._

Tony sighs. There's no Bond Girl anywhere near here so maybe he should just let them go.

But what happens then? If Tony knows Gibbs – and he sure as hell should after five years as senior field agent - , there'll be a perimeter around the Yard with half of NCIS ready to take down these dirt-bags. And if not, are these men escaping a risk Tony is willing to take?

Against his better judgment, he meets Tim's gaze. It's that same petrified look Tim used to give him when they were both on the receiving end of Gibbs' tirades. When the younger man was backed into a corner without any new leads, hopeless and terrified and begging for back-up.

Swallowing hard, Tony prays he'll live long enough to regret what he's about to do.

Tony lowers his weapon, raises his free hand. "I never saw you three. I came, found Agent McGee, and we both went home. That's it."

Dozer genuinely laughs. "You think it's that easy? We all just walk away."

"It can be – " Tony forces an easy smile " - if you let it."

When the van's engine coughs to life, Tony flinches like he's been shot. With his heart hammering in his throat, he sneaks a half-step closer. If the group takes Tim now, no one will ever see him alive again. The thought of not being able to protect his partner two days ago sucks Tony's breath away.

He won't let them be separated again.

Tony tilts his head. "Never leave a man behind. Right, Dozer?"

Something that might be regret slides over Dozer's face and his rifle falters. Just as he opens his mouth to issue an order, Tony hears the gears of the Morgan scream behind them.

_Oh shit, Dad. Now what?_

"Hob, go!" Dozer yells.

Tony swings his gun back towards Hobgoblin's head. But before he has a chance to take the shot, Hobgoblin shoves Tim roughly forward. Tim stumbles a few steps, then slams full-force into Tony. Both men collapse against the sweltering asphalt in a tangle of limbs.

Tires screech against the pavement as the van peals away with the Morgan in hot pursuit. Even though the Morgan tops out at fifteen miles, it still tails the rapidly disappearing van. As it roars past, Tony wraps a protective arm around Tim and puts himself between the cars and any potential bullets.

Tim groans. "Tony, you came too. I can't believe - "

When Tim goes slack in his grasp, Tony pulls him tighter.

"Don't worry, Probie. I've got you."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**9:12am – University of Pennsylvania Medical Center – Philadelphia, Pa. –**

Snippets of the waking world invade the comfortable, happy place where Tim hides from reality. The hard mattress and scent of industrial disinfectant remind him that he's still being held hostage. His captors whisper nearby, probably discussing where they plan to ditch his body.

He swallows the lump in his throat, tries to even his breathing so they'll think he's still asleep. Shifting to a more comfortable position, he begs himself to go back to sleep. To retreat to that wonderful dream where his father, Gibbs, and Tony all showed up to save him from this living hell. But that could never happen since his father and Gibbs would kill each other long before they worked together.

_Still was nice to think it could happen._

He clenches his hands into fists, twisting them up in the rough sheets. But for some reason, they aren't bound anymore. Confusion rolls over him as he tries to figure out what's going on.

Why would his captors let him loose after his last escape attempt?

Not needing to find out, Tim hazards a peek at the room. He blinks slowly as it blurs into focus. Instead of the motel's cheap, plywood furniture, everything here is made out of hard plastic and metal. He peers through the bed rails at the harsh white walls with a faded print of a waterfall that looks older than him. On the other side of the room, there's an empty hospital bed.

He scrubs his hands over his face, desperate to prove this hospital room isn't just another hallucination.

_Maybe I wasn't dreaming when Dad and Gibbs showed up together…and when Tony saved me._

As his vision clears, he finally notices the person passed out in the nearby chair. With his head propped up against the back and mouth hanging open, Tony's body shudders into a snore.

Laughing, Tim shakes his head. Only his superior could find that position comfortable.

"I heard that, Probster," Tony says, not moving. "Are you really awake this time?"

Tim's brow furrows. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you weren't earlier. But thank G-d, I was getting tired of the false alarms."

"What are you talking about?"

When he snaps his head up, Tony adds his trademark grin to the bruises on his face. "You kept giggling in your sleep. I haven't heard you laugh like that since…well..." The way his voice trails off, Tim knows he meant to say, 'before Gibbs left.'

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose, realizing how true it is.

When Gibbs strode out of the bullpen that night, the team nearly fell apart. Despite the rushed promotion to Special Agent in Charge, Tony managed to be the glue to keep them together. But the change-up took its toll, leaving them all stressed, reeling, and humorless. Even though they attempted to recapture their original friendship, laughter in the bullpen was always forced at best.

Tim debates about apologizing to Tony for all of those questioned orders and snide remarks, but he can't bring himself to say the words. If he wasn't so sure they were warranted by Tony's own ego and power trips, he just might. They all did regrettable things after Gibbs left.

Instead, he closes his eyes and forces himself to let go of their past. When he looks back at Tony, he swallows hard at the sight of his superior's battered and swollen face.

_He nearly died for me. Just like he almost killed himself to keep us together._

"Thank you, Tony," Tim whispers.

Tony's brow furrows. "For what?"

"For saving my life. For doing – "

"My job as your partner." There's a long pause, then quieter: "And your friend." When Tim starts to speak again, Tony holds up his hand. "Don't go all _Brokeback Mountain_ on me, McGee. I know how you feel – " he cracks a tight grin like it'll be their little secret " – but you don't have to say it."

Nodding, Tim ignores the tears welling to his eyes. He tells himself it's just a side effect of the drug.

"How are you feeling?" Tim asks.

Tony's serious smile morphs into that characteristic, shit-eating grin as he preens his hospital gown. "I'll be much better when our nurse comes back."

Tim fights the urge to roll his eyes, but plays along for normalcy's sake. "Really? What's she look like?"

"Perfect ten. Long, blonde hair and a beautiful – " he cups his hands in front of his chest " – smile. I bet she's got a great body under those cute, pink scrubs. Wait, you never ask what my love interests look like." He shoots his friend a suspicious glance. "Do you think you might have a chance?"

Tim only has the energy for a one shouldered shrug. "Why not?"

"Because she's out of your league, Probie. Scratch that, you two aren't even on the same planet. Plus, I'm getting her number as soon as she comes back. She already promised."

Chuckling humorlessly, Tim leans back against the bed. He lets his gaze wander to the television near the ceiling until he feels Tony studying him intently. When their eyes meet, Tony presses his lips together.

"Do you have something on your mind, Tim?"

"I saw Gibbs this morning, Tony. I thought I was dreaming, but he really was there with my dad." Tim sighs. "Do you think he came back for us?"

Tony flinches violently, looks away. "Yeah, I think he did. I bet he dropped those cervezas and hopped on a plane as soon as he heard I screwed up."

Tim's brow furrows. "What are you talking about? You didn't screw up."

"I didn't fight back like I should have." His nose twitches as his features twist in disgust. "I suggested they take you hostage."

"And if you hadn't, they would've killed me. We had no chance against assault rifles, Tony."

He shakes his head. "There had to be a different way. There's always another way."

Certain he'll never change Tony's mind, Tim stares at his superior slack-jawed. He needs to change the subject…now. So he reaches for the easiest thing. "It's good to hear Gibbs came home, huh?"

"Yeah, it was great." But Tony's darkened features betray his words.

Tim worries a loose thread on his sheets. Now, doesn't seem the best time to ask his superior whether he thinks Gibbs is done with his Mexican vacation.

As if reading Tim's mind, Tony scoops the television remote on the tray table. He flicks through the channels for a few minutes until he reaches an old black and white movie. As the two leads squabble about something on the screen, Tony leans back in his seat, letting his face go slack with rapt fascination. Settling against the bed, Tim tries to understand why Tony loves these old movies so much. Yes, the cinematography is spectacular, but the movie tends to revolve around a predictable plot and two people trying not to kill each other. But he doesn't say anything, just lets Tony have this moment.

_Who knows how long he'll be able to enjoy himself._

After the first one, a second movie with a plot nearly identical to the first starts. Tim thinks they bore him to sleep once or twice, but he isn't really sure. The next time he glances at the screen, the credits roll.

Just when he's about to beg Tony to put on something – baseball game, soap opera, Oprah, Jerry Springer, anything - else, a familiar figure edges into the door frame. With his coffee cup and same tragic haircut, he looks exactly the same as the day he strode out of NCIS.

Tim's chest tightens as Gibbs heads into the room.

_Boss…_

He stops at the foot of the bed, evaluating his former agents. "Hey."

Tim pushes himself higher. "Boss!"

"I'm not your boss anymore, McGee," he replies, making the younger man wince. "How are you feeling?"

"Good, great, really happy to still be alive." Tim laughs, but there isn't any joy in it. "Thank you for coming back to help us."

Gibbs shrugs as though returning from Mexico and ripping Washington apart searching for them was no big deal. When he looks at Tony, he sips his coffee. "Glad to see you're finally awake, DiNozzo."

Tony bobs his head, but doesn't look away from his movie. "Yeah. Thanks for coming, Gibbs."

When Gibbs simply slugs on his coffee, Tim's cautious gaze bounces between the two men. Even though he's curious as to why Tony isn't more grateful and Gibbs more talkative, there are more important things he needs to find out about. Like how Gibbs survived working with his father and -

"Where's my dad?" Tim blurts out.

"Down the hall, finishing up with Barrows' team. They had a lot of questions – " Gibbs curls his lip to bare his teeth " – for both of us."

"Why? What happened?"

"Mission was a bust."

Tim blinks. "How? Tony and I are okay."

Gibbs sips his drink again, shrugs. "Dirt-bags got away with the ransom."

"But what about the meet? They - "

"Slipped right through the perimeter Barrows set up," Gibbs replies, making Tony flex his jaw.

Tim's eyebrows jump. "I'm surprised they were even there. I thought NCIS didn't negotiate with terrorists."

"They don't. Davenport and Barrows didn't know they were back-up for a ransom drop."

"And Kenji?" Tim asks, leaning forward.

"One week suspension as soon as the case is closed for helping me and not reporting what really happened to Barrows." Gibbs chuckles, swigs his coffee. "Kid said it was the right choice."

Tim makes a face. "Won't you get in trouble too, Bo - Gibbs?"

"I'm not with NCIS anymore."

Both agents shudder at Gibbs' words. Pressing his lips together, Tim meets his superior's gaze. For a fleeting moment, he swears there's a flash anger behind Tony' placid expression.

Desperate to appease his superior, Tim blurts out: "How'd you find Tony, Gibbs? We got separated shortly after we were taken."

"Barrows, his team, and I followed a lead to a house in Washington. Found him during the raid."

Tilting his head, Tony finally joins the conversation. "Yeah, some guy my father pissed off was ready to shake him down for the cash he owed. Too bad, it'd have been like getting blood from a stone." His expression hardens again. "Where is he anyway? Did he skip town already?"

"Last I saw him, he was fine." Gibbs chuckles. "We'll see how he is after Ducky gets done with him."

Tim's brow furrows. "Why would Ducky have a problem with Tony's dad?"

"He stole the Morgan." When Tim starts to press, Tony continues: "Then destroyed it on the drive up here. I guess Dad never learned how to drive stick."

Gibbs nods. "Seized the engine, destroyed the clutch, and G-d knows what else."

The thought of someone just driving Ducky's car turns Tim's blood to ice. Hardly any of his possessions mattered to the medical examiner like the beloved Morgan his mother gave him a few years before her mental decline. Whoever came between him and that vehicle would have hell to pay. If DiNozzo's dad is – really, really - lucky, he might not have a new home in the morgue.

Based on the way Tony hisses through his teeth, Tim bets they share the same thought. "Maybe I should go check on him."

When he climbs to his feet, he weaves like he might pass out. Gibbs edges closer, ready to catch him. But Tony shakes his head, then walks out of the room.

Gibbs glances over at Tim, his brow furrowing. "What's gotten into DiNozzo?"

Tim forces a brave smile, but cringes inwardly. "He had a lot to deal with after you left."

"I could leave because I knew he was ready." He shifts his weight, tightens his grip on his coffee cup. "Took a long time before he got good enough to take on my team. I trust him to show you and Ziva what's right."

"It probably didn't feel like that to Tony." When the line of Gibbs' brow deepens, Tim sighs. "Even though he never said anything, I sorta think he felt like you ditched us."

Gibbs' eyes widen slightly. "It was time for me to move on."

Tim shrugs. "I doubt he saw it that way, Boss. You walked out on us."

Cracking his neck, Gibbs straightens his back like he's ready to say something to defend himself. Just as he starts to speak, a man's figure appears in the doorway. Even though wrinkles hang on his long face and his hairline races to the crown of his head, Tim would recognize him anywhere.

"Dad."

John smiles tightly, but remains rooted to his spot. "Hello, Timothy. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Tim replies with a nod.

Both of them glance towards Gibbs, who takes the not-so-subtle hint to leave. He mutters something about finding his ME before he puts Tony's dad on ice. On his way into the hallway, he looks towards John with something that surprises Tim: respect.

Once they're alone, John closes the distance between him and his son. As Tim holds his father's stare, he studies the expressionless face. He wonders which man will make an appearance now: the caring father he saw at the meet or the drill sergeant who raised him. The intense anxiety he used to feel as a child creeps up into his throat, nearly strangling him.

Without letting his father make the first move, Tim blurts out: "I'll get your money back, Dad. It might take a while, but I'll pay you back. I swear."

John stops in his tracks, his mouth gaping. "Is that why you think I'm here?"

Flinching, Tim threads and unthreads the sheets between his fingers. He has no idea how to answer that question. Yes or no, it's so simple. But either response will only bring trouble. So he drops his gaze to his hands, then he shrugs.

With a broken sigh, John reaches the edge of the bed. Gripping the rail so tightly his knuckles go white, he sighs again when Tim doesn't look up.

"I'm here for you, Timothy. Did you know it's been three years since we talked?" When Tim nods, John hisses through his teeth. "I can't believe my own stubbornness drove you and kept you away. I wish I could tell you how many times I picked up the phone to call, but – " he flicks his lower lip between his teeth " - Gibbs told me about all of the great things you and your team do. I missed it, all of it."

The silence lingers between the two of them as Tim glances up at John. Instead of the strict drill sergeant, the man with a quiet, loving presence looms over him. Tim smiles at the man he thought he'd would never see again. Before today, he hadn't made an appearance the night Tim's sister was born.

John reaches to squeeze Tim's shoulder. "I can't believe I almost lost you again."

"Dad, I'm – "

"Don't apologize, son. Sign of weakness, remember?"

Chuckling, Tim nods. "Rule six."

"Yeah, Agent Gibbs said something like that." John laughs too, quick and fleeting. "What do you say we grab lunch and catch up when you're feeling better?"

Tim gestures to the open chair. "Why wait? Now seems like the perfect time to me."


	15. Epilogue

**Monday, August 28, 2006 – 7:28pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

As the elevator makes its steady climb to the fourth floor, Gibbs stares at his reflection in the doors. That damned visitor's badge is clipped to his threadbare sports coat, a constant reminder how he no longer belongs here. With a labored sigh, he starts to remove it.

Behind him, Kenji Suzuki clears his throat. "You know the rules, sir. You need to leave it on."

"Enough with the damned rules, Suzuki. Where'd that get you last time?"

Kenji's reflection flinches, his cheeks paling. "One week's suspension, sir."

"Are you getting paid?"

"Yes, but – "

"Then it's a vacation," Gibbs replies with a smirk.

When the elevator hits their floor, Kenji's brow furrows as though he'd never considered that possibility. Gibbs almost misses the moment of realization spread over the probationary agent's face as the doors slide open. As he hops off the elevator, Gibbs shakes his head.

_It's about time that kid learned something. Results matter, not the consequences._

Gibbs takes the familiar route to the bullpen with Kenji on his heels. Even though he suspected Tony might be here, Gibbs didn't actually expect to find him at work. After everything his former agents went through last week, he thought Tony would be home recovering, but multiple trips to his apartment - and his favorite watering hole - came up empty. So he decided to give the bullpen a shot.

When Gibbs takes a step forward, Kenji starts to follow.

"Don't you have anything better to do than follow me around, Suzuki?"

Kenji makes a face, shakes his head. "Actually, sir, no. My paperwork's finished. As soon as you're done, I start my – "

"Vacation," Gibbs finishes.

The probationary agent attempts a smile, but it comes off as a grimace. "Yeah, I guess."

"Then get going, Suzuki. I'll see myself out."

"But it's protocol."

"And what are they going to do if you leave me alone? Send you home early?"

When Kenji presses his lips together, his brow furrows as though he's trying to make sense of the comment. Just when Gibbs worries the younger man might hurt himself, he nods tightly. Like he finally understands.

"Good luck, Gibbs." Then he's gone.

But Gibbs doesn't watch him leave. Instead, he turns his attention back to the bullpen as he struggles to grasp why Kenji wished him luck. From where he stands, he watches Tony move mechanically between his desk and Gibbs' old one. His arms are loaded with casefiles that he's dumping on his desk. Something low and soulful – maybe Billie Holiday? – warbles out of the plasma's speakers.

After Tony drops the files on his desk, he crosses his arms and stares out at the space. His shoulders rise as he lets out a broken sigh.

"I know you're there, Gibbs," he says, almost whispering.

"Finally grew eyes in the back of your head, DiNozzo?"

But Tony doesn't laugh, doesn't even bother to face his former boss. Something that feels like guilt bubbles inside Gibbs' gut as he edges closer. His eyes rake across Tony's old desk. Once open casefiles are now neatly arranged into piles with their contents locked away. The spitball straws, candy wrappers, and old pictures of the team have vanished. Only that stapler with the weird cartooned mouse give any indication Tony might inhabit the space again.

But worst of all, the white board with Tony's accomplishments rests by the trashcan, scrubbed clean. Like his closure percentage as team leader never existed.

Gibbs licks his lips. "How you feelin', DiNozzo?"

"Great." Tony steals a glance at his desk. "Just great."

Silence wedges itself between the pair as Gibbs studies his former agent. Tony's body is tense, wound so tightly he might explode at the slight provocation. While Gibbs doesn't want to be the spark, he needs to know why Tony's acting this way. Then, he'll defuse the ticking bomb.

Shifting his weight, he sips his coffee. "So any word on Barrows' investigation?"

"What investigation? Director Shepard closed the investigation into McGee and my abduction this morning." His features twist as he nearly spits the words. "Our captors are already dead and we aren't supposed to go chasing ghosts. We aren't even filing official reports. It's like…" Tony's voice trails off as he drops his gaze to the worn carpet.

"It never even happened."

"Yeah. McGee and I almost got killed for nothing."

Gibbs nods carefully, swigs his coffee. "How about your dad?"

Even though Tony makes a face, amusement dances in his eyes. "Off the grid until the repair bill comes in for Ducky's car. Last I heard, Ducky had Abby running Dad's credit cards. I'm not sure whether they'll find him."

"Have you seen him?"

Tony nods tightly. "Last night for dinner, but don't tell Ducky."

Smirking, Gibbs takes another sip of his coffee. That stubborn silence worms its way through them again, threatening to force them even further apart. The soft jazz vocals glide between them, struggling to serve as conversation. Gibbs stands at attention next to Tony's old desk as he pushes through the files. They're all cases the team never managed to close before he retired.

Gibbs stares at his former agent until Tony's eyes snap up. The defiant fire blazing in them nearly sucks Gibbs' breath away. It's been a lifetime since Tony looked at him like everything is his fault.

"Are you the only one here today?" Gibbs asks.

Tony nods. "Yeah. McGee took some personal time and Ziva…well, she probably did too."

Gibbs watches his former agent closely. "What about you?"

"I didn't need any."

When Gibbs sips his coffee silently, Tony jerks his head away. Just when he's about to walk away, Gibbs takes a step forward.

"You never came by the house," he says quietly. "I left the door unlocked."

"I guess I didn't feel like bourbon – " Tony shrugs with one shoulder " - or talking."

"Well, I waited for you. Even McGee and Ziva came by."

"Ziva?" Tony turns around, clearly interested. "You heard from her?"

Gibbs nods. "She stopped by Friday night and McGee came Saturday afternoon."

"Where is she anyway?"

"She's running down a lead on your and McGee's kidnappers. Told me she'd be handing it off to Mossad as soon as determines its credibility." Gibbs drums his fingers on his coffee cup. "Then she should be back."

"Should be back," Tony repeats, chuckling ruefully. "Figures she'd go to you before she came to me."

"That's what I told her. She's supposed to check in with you, not me."

Tony shrugs that one-shouldered shrug again. "Why? It's not like it matters anymore, Boss."

The way he says the former title – with more insult than respect – makes Gibbs recoil. He holds his former agent's stare as though he might learn something from it, but Tony's gotten even better at hiding his emotions. Gibbs hazards a step towards his agent.

"What's that supposed mean, DiNozzo?"

"I heard you were coming back this morning." Tony squares his shoulders, works his hands into fists. "It figures you'd wait for me to screw up, then take over the team again. What happened to letting me handle things?"

"It's not like that, Tony."

"Then what's it like, Boss?" The word cuts again, deeper this time. "You left us, all of us." There's a broken sigh, then a quieter, "You left me."

Gibbs blinks, taken aback. "I – "

"Let me finish."

Nodding, Gibbs settles into the nearest chair and gives Tony his undivided attention.

As though he hadn't been expecting it, Tony straightens his suit jacket and draws himself to his full height. It's the moment Gibbs finally recognizes the confident, capable agent he knew was hidden underneath that cocky, juvenile cop back in Baltimore. Even though he wants to tell Tony how proud he is, he holds his tongue to let the agent say his piece.

Tony begins to pace. "You have no idea how hard this was, Gibbs. To convince them I'm the boss. To make them listen. Do you know how many times Ziva questioned my orders? And McGee would just sit there like he was deciding whether it was something you'd do." His lips pull into a pained smile. "I doubted myself enough, but to have my team question me too?"

He stops moving long enough to face Gibbs. "It's like they were just waiting for you to come back and then, here you are. Do you know this feels?"

Certain the question is rhetorical, Gibbs shakes his head. As he ignores the sympathetic twist in his gut, he watches his former agent stalk the length of the bullpen for a second time. Based on the way Tony works his jaw and crosses his arms, he isn't done yet.

"You know what. I bet you don't even care." Tony's shoulders rise as he lets out his breath in a huff. Then he drops the bomb: "I put in for a transfer this morning."

Gibbs' eyes widen. "Why?"

"Because I don't want to be senior field agent again." Tony presses his lips together as he sinks into a chair. "I deserve my own team. Even if it isn't this one."

Swigging his coffee, Gibbs waits for the anger to ebb away from his former agent's face. "You're right, Tony. You do deserve your own team and believe it or not, you already have one. I just didn't expect you to give up on them so easily."

Tony laughs humorlessly. "McGee and Ziva sure as hell don't act like they're on my team."

"Then get them in line. But things should change soon." When Tony shoots him a disbelieving glance, Gibbs' eyebrows jump. "It's part of what I talked to them about. I'm not they're boss anymore, you are. Explained to them I'm not coming back."

"And what – "

Gibbs holds his hand up. "My turn, DiNozzo. Remember I was ready to walk away, you were ready for your own team. I explained to them I'd rather leave to keep you guys together, then lose the one person I trust to keep everyone safe."

Tony's brow furrows. "Then why is everyone saying you're back?"

Gibbs unclips the visitor's badge from his sports coat, then chucks it in the nearest trashcan. "I'm consulting with NCIS as soon as Shepard approves the paperwork."

Tony gapes at him. "Consulting?"

"Yeah, I heard it pays pretty well. Blew through my retirement savings a little quicker than I'd planned."

When Tony shoots him a sideways glance, Gibbs smirks. Based on the look, he knows exactly what his former agent is thinking. Shepard barely let him stay in NCIS as an agent so there's no way in hell he'll be back as a consultant. But when he remembers that undercover moment Shepard would rather keep buried, Gibbs is pretty sure she'll approve the paperwork tomorrow morning.

_Blackmail always did work on those career types._

Tony clears his throat. "And what are you doing here, Gibbs?"

"NCIS needs someone to help train the probationary agents." He swigs his coffee, nods. "Already got a head start on Suzuki."

Rubbing the back of his neck, Tony's brow furrows. "Didn't he get suspended for helping you?"

"We got the results we needed." Gibbs bobs his coffee cup between his former agent and Tim's empty desk. "Someone needs to make sure these agents learn how to do things the right way."

Tony blinks like he's trying to wake up from a strange dream. "Is that really why you're staying?"

"That and I couldn't find a good cup of coffee south of the border."

Even though Gibbs wants to confess he misses his team, he can't bring himself to say the words. Based on the way Tony nods at him, Gibbs believes the sentiment is shared. If he has to teach the probies right from wrong to be near them again, then so be it.

"Glad to have you back, boss."

Gibbs allows himself one more smile. "I'm not your boss anymore, Tony. Speaking of, you'd better go stop that paperwork before Shepard ships your ass off to Okinawa."

Tony's cheeks go a deathly white as he leaps out of his chair. He starts towards the stairs, then doubles-back to Gibbs. Lingering for a long beat, he holds Gibbs' stare. Then he pulls his former boss into a one-armed hug. Closing his eyes, Gibbs taps his hands on Tony's back.

"I'm proud of you, Tony. I'm proud of all of you."

"Thank you. But why let me keep the team?"

"Rule five."

Tony sighs. "You don't waste good."

Gibbs pushes Tony back so he can stare into his eyes. "You're G-damn right, DiNozzo. And you three together are good. Just get your shit together and lead."

"I'm on it, Boss." He gives a sad smile as he corrects himself: "I'm on it, Gibbs."

Then Tony vanishes to intercept his paperwork.

Pressing his lips together, Gibbs hangs back in the bullpen.

For a fleeting moment, he sees his former team at their desks, hard at work. Tim hunches forward, typing feverishly at his computer, while Tony tries to fling spitballs without anyone noticing. Even though she appears clam, Ziva reaches for the weapon she keeps taped underneath her desk to threaten Tony. All the while, he reads casefiles at his desk until it's time to demand results.

Nostalgia rolls over Gibbs, followed closely by regret. This moment of perfect normalcy is something he will never experience again. Before he heads out of the bullpen for the last time, he sets his coffee cup on his old desk and watches himself fade away.


End file.
